


The Indigo Stain

by dracox_serdriel



Series: Series 3: Unfinished Business [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Ghost Story, Abduction, Alternate Season/Series 03, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Abuse, Asexual Sherlock, Attack dogs, Attempted Kidnapping, Case Fic, Chronic Illness, Codes & Ciphers, Family fued, Gen, Hauntings, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Impersonation, Insanity, John Finds Out, John Watson's Blog, Kidnapping, Lupus, Mind Games, Mind Palace, Miscarriage, Murder, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Multiple, Reunion, Reverse engineering, Salcombe, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Sherlock incognito, Stillbirth, Story: The Adventure of the Copper Beeches, The Grant Estate, The Miracle Child, The Science of Deduction, The Secret's Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracox_serdriel/pseuds/dracox_serdriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The abduction of Scotland Yard's newest forensics expert, Indigo Kendall Berwyn, attracts investigative eyes from across London. When no leads are discovered, Sherlock Holmes returns to find the woman who cleared his name. As his case leads to unknown criminal activity in Salcombe involving a prominent family that has adopted very odd behavior, Sherlock enlists John Watson's aid in uncovering the disturbing truth of a haunted mansion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Handed

Sherlock Holmes had died, washed up, and left London in one day. He returned, briefly, just after his funeral, covered gracefully by his ever trusty Homeless Network. He returned for various reasons, the most obvious being to verify the survival of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. His investigation into Moriarty's plans, post-mortem and otherwise, also drew him back to London.

The Fulmer murder investigation, however, was what made him stay in London longer than he planned. Sherlock knew it wasn't the best way to go about things. After all, Mycroft had run of all the cameras in London, and most of the Yard knew him by sight. He could hide himself among the Homeless Network and disguises his face, but between rain and wind, Sherlock's identity wouldn't remain hidden for longer than a few days, at best.

Before leaving the city indefinitely, Sherlock discovered Mycroft had dropped in unexpectedly on John, which was highly suspicious. Thus, Sherlock was forced to inspect his own flat.

John had packed away his old notes and all of Sherlock's scientific equipment. He searched through everything, being sure to put every page back exactly where it was. 

Then he noticed something odd.

John had a specific packing style, highly organized, probably a byproduct of his military career. Yet the third box had an untidy arrangement of files, as if it was put together in a hurry. And there at the bottom was a new folder with freshly printed pages.

Sherlock was tempted to take the entire file, but he couldn't risk it being missed. So instead he snagged the thumb drive tacked inside the folder, hoping it was a full digital copy.

 

That's how Sherlock found himself on Curzon Street looking up 27 C for the flat of Indigo Kendall Berwyn. Police tape covered the door, but the crime scene had been cold for two days.

Sherlock slipped in without incident, and he saw that the police report was complete rubbish. "Signs of a struggle" would be an apt description only if one were observing from outer space. The flat had been overrun with violence: blood and hair and even a spare fingernail. 

He started in the living room, which was clearly where the attack began. Blood was on the sofa, across the table, but it was like drips, maybe from a bloody nose. He followed the struggle, which was downright vicious, as it moved into the hall, as exhibited by knocked over pictures, and then to the kitchen and even the bathroom. 

Sherlock pictured Indigo Kendall Berwyn as described in the report. She was approximately 1.6m tall and 72 kilos. Originally, he assumed she was heavyset, but now he reconsidered. Several impact points in the wall suggested a heel or a fist, but they were all small in diameter. Miss Berwyn was clearly trained in martial arts of some variety. Without a photo, Sherlock could only guess muscle mass and body structure, but 'fit' would be the right word. Very fit.

He turned his attention to the other party. From the heel imprint of the assailant's boot, the attacker was a male about 1.8m tall and weighing over 86 kilos. Whoever he was, he wasn't a skilled kidnapper or assassin, and he certainly wasn't ready for Miss Berwyn to put up a fight. 

As this occurred to him, Sherlock returned to the living room. The disarray was not from the fight alone. Blood spattered over papers and tossed over clothing. Yes, the assailant came here to _find_ something, either before or instead of abduction.

Sherlock retraced the steps, but the forensics team and the police had already been over the place, contaminating the scene with footprints and signs of moment. It was entirely possible the attacker removed something from the trunk in her bedroom as well as the locked drawer in her desk. Or it could be neither, depending on how tidy Miss Berwyn kept her flat.

He swept over the area. A woman who studied the martial arts was either interested in the sport or preparedness. Given her exhibited proficiency, Sherlock deducted it was the latter. If she prepared for an assault, then she would've dealt with other possible issues, including thieves. Which meant she had hiding places. Clever ones.

Sherlock remembered the living room, kitchen, and bedroom. They all had frequent use. Nothing out of place, nothing overused, so it must be concealed somewhere she frequents. He ran through the flat again and considered where the attacker _didn't_ look... 

None of the books on the shelf were touched, so he started there.

 

After about thirty minutes, Sherlock found three handmade hideaway books with bagged evidence concealed. At least, he assumed as much, since Miss Berwyn was a forensics expert.

Sherlock was considering this evidence when a throat cleared.

"Forty minutes? Really Sherlock, you're getting slow," a familiar voice said. "Perhaps you need a skull or Doctor John Watson. Or maybe being dead is a factor."

Sherlock turned to face his brother. "Mycroft."

"You must have expected this," Mycroft said. 

"I was waiting for you to catch up," Sherlock replied slyly. "That thumb drive was you all over, wasn't it?"

"It took you twenty minutes to even look at the book shelves to begin with," Mycroft said. "Disgraceful."

"As you said, I haven't my skull or John," Sherlock said. "And being dead requires an element of silence so as to not attract attention."

"I won't ask how you managed to die without my help," Mycroft said softly. "But I will ask why you didn't bother telling me." 

"I walked into your little Sherlock trap, that's as good as telling you."

"I mean before your death."

Sherlock scoffed. "You aren't really... you're not telling me that you _cared_?"

There was an excessively long pause that was simultaneously painful and profound. Somewhere in that moment, Sherlock received his answer, and the air of smugness sloughed off him. 

Mycroft straightened his tie and adjusted the point of his umbrella before speaking. "Even you can't be foolish enough to assume I wouldn't care that you died."

Just like that, the moment passed, and the Holmes brothers were again themselves. 

Sherlock said, "If a long speech about mother is coming, you can save it."

"Oh, no," Mycroft replied. "Because I won't be the one to tell her."

"You're just going to let her think I'm dead?" Sherlock asked indignantly. 

Mycroft smiled. "Am I to assume correctly that you're looking into the women who cleared your name?" 

"What?"

"Indigo Kendall Berwyn. She quite expediently cleared your name with exceptionally precise forensics," Mycroft said.

"That's too many adverbs," Sherlock said. "What do you know?"

"Have you heard of the Engineer?"

"Mycroft, I'm supposed to be dead, so the longer you take to impart information, the more likely I will become suddenly undead, which will be unhelpful in my plans."

"The Engineer has contacted John Watson," Mycroft said. "Most unusual."

"Miss Berwyn is this Engineer person, I presume?"

"We have dozens of names on file for this woman, and I highly doubt Indigo Kendall Berwyn is a legitimate name for anyone."

"Why did she contact John? Is... is he all right?"

"Yes, yes, he's fine," Mycroft dismissed. "She contacted him over the Fulmer case and you apparently. We don't know much about her. Occasionally, the Engineer will expose criminal activity. Never with credentials or as a witness, but evidence enough. It's troublesome, really. A different identity every time."

"So she picked a pseudonym to brand herself?"

"She's very particular about the people she contacts," Mycroft continued. "Her turning up at the Yard for over a week is unprecedented."

"And now someone has abducted her," Sherlock said.

"It appears so," Mycroft said. "Which means someone identified her before we did."

"You sound unhappy."

"Disturbed is more like it," Mycroft said.

"Fascinating," Sherlock said.

"Are you telling me that you're interested in investigating a case that I brought to your attention?" Mycroft asked. 

"Just this once, for the novelty," Sherlock replied.


	2. Tide

Molly laid out one tea set then traded it out for another. She ran the kettle twice because the first pot turned cold before John arrived. She was nervous on a whole new level. The words "we need to talk" coming from John Watson made her stomach wrench.

Then the bell of her flat rang.

"John, come on in," she said, waving him into her living room.

He politely joined her for tea, and he didn't remark on her shaking hands as she served him.

"So, you said we needed to talk?" Molly asked.

"Come on, Molly," John said. "You know what this is about."

She took a long sip of tea in place of a reply. 

"Mycroft told me," he said. "About Sherlock."

"Oh," she said mildly.

"I asked to meet you here so we could talk without being overheard," John said. "I'm not mad at you." This, of course, was an outright lie, but between a friend lying and a friend dying, it was easy to weigh out the options.

"It's just that... What is there to talk about?" she asked. 

"Well, what's going on now?" John asked.

Molly put her tea and saucer back down on the table. "I don't know," she said. 

"What d'ya mean, you don't know?"

"It's like in the lab. I run tests, tell him, and then... I have no idea what's going on. Usually I can't even guess."

"Seriously?"

 

John returned home from Molly's flat annoyed and deeply unhappy. He assumed that she would have answers. If Sherlock didn't go to Mycroft, then surely he must have needed additional help from Molly.

But she knew as much as he did now. She didn't know why he was still in hiding, or where for that matter.

"Are you all right dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. 

"Hard day," John replied. 

"Oh, bad shift?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Actually, that was pretty standard," John replied. 

Sarah had phoned him about picking up some shifts at the clinic; the worst part about it was the awkward yet somber tension between the two of them. He wasn't sure what to say to his ex, and she wasn't sure what to say to him, either. 

"Well, that's nice," she replied. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, I just had a chat with Molly," John hedged. "Bit rough. I think I was a bit rude."

"That's understandable sometimes, dear," she replied. "How is Molly?"

"She's...good. And how are you?"

"Oh, well, the ladies across the way had a bit of a cooking thing, and we spent all afternoon discussing silverware and tumblers and all manner of other kitchenware. It was like the day just drifted by," she replied. Her phone rang. "Oh, I'd better get that."

She shuffled off, and John went upstairs to the living room of his flat, which seemed emptier than usual. Someone had removed the packed boxes. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" John called downstairs. "Where are the boxes?"

She didn't respond, but an envelop on the living room table did as much. John recognized Mycroft's handwriting across the front: JOHN WATSON, OPEN IMMEDIATELY.

John pulled out a map of Salcombe, Devon. Folded inside was a full travel itinerary, including a car service timed to pick him up in an hour.

"What?" John said as he leafed through the paperwork. The last page had a small note pinned to the front. He scanned over the words quickly and then again more slowly to ensure he was reading properly.

> Dear John: 
> 
> Your assistance is required in Salcombe. I have made arrangements for your trip, including a replacement for your shifts at the clinic and appropriate compensation. My apologies for the short notice, but I assure you, your participation is absolutely vital.
> 
> Sincerely,   
> Mycroft Holmes  
> 

"That's absolutely daft," John whispered. He began to fumble for his phone, angry that Mycroft would just assume his involvement in...whatever the hell was going on.

"You all right dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she came in. "I heard you calling." She looked at the room properly and asked, "What happened to all the boxes?"

"Mycroft," John replied with certainty. "Sorry, I just yelled down because I thought you might've moved them when I was out."

"I'm not your house keeper, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied. 

"Apparently Mycroft thinks I'll just drop everything on his whim," John said, ignoring her comment. "Probably took the boxes hostage," he added quietly.

"Not just the boxes," she replied, "but the other equipment that we hadn't pack yet, it's gone as well."

"Really?"

"Take a look," Mrs. Hudson said, waving to the kitchen.

There were quite a number of items in the kitchen that John hadn't done anymore than set aside. The oversized microscope, the jars of horrible things Sherlock kept around for his experiments, and the odd bits and pieces of objects that John couldn't identify. Mrs. Hudson had done the same, and both of them said they weren't sure how to properly pack it away. It was half true.

Molly Hooper, of course, could have assisted with all of it. She worked with similar items at Bart's and would certainly be able to dispose or preserve all the biological conundrums Sherlock kept in the kitchen. Neither John nor Mrs. Hudson, however, suggested getting an expert to help because neither one of them wanted to remove that part of Sherlock from the flat. Not yet, anyway. 

So John stared at the kitchen, now empty of Sherlock's existence, and the entire room seemed smaller somehow.

"When did he have time to do this?" John asked.

"Must've been in the afternoon, while I was out, or I would've given him half my mind," Mrs. Hudson replied as she left the room.

A spark lit up in John. Mycroft had been paying for half the flat for weeks now, but he didn't remove anything until now, the same day that he invites John out of the city for something that requires his presence. Why remove the equipment and the notes from previous cases? Only one reason made any kind of sense: Sherlock Holmes had a case and, being legally dead and thus unable to collect things himself, reached out to his brother for help.

Eager curiosity smothered the anger inside of John. What could possibly be so important that Sherlock would risk his elaborately faked death? More than that, what could force Sherlock into asking Mycroft, of all people, for help? The last time he did that, it was because a monstrous hound was roaming the countryside, and Sherlock needed access to prove that a drug induced its manifestation.

John went into his room and started to pack for an indefinite trip. The itinerary said a maximum of two weeks, but he wouldn't mind if he remained away for a month. If this was the case that would bring Sherlock back to London – and what else could it be? – then John would put in as much time as it took to complete the task.

 

Sherlock disliked asking for Mycroft's help. Despite everyone's insistence to the contrary, it had nothing to do with a childish dispute. Nepotism allowed stupidity to seep into society, from the government to scientific research, so he only participated in it when absolute necessity required it. People constantly insisted that their children, their family members, were so important that one exception or another should be made for them. 

He understood conditions made given particular limitations, such as adding accessible ramps and doorways to scientific laboratories for researchers with mobility assistance devices or introducing a monitoring grid to detect flickering lights and other triggers for those with epilepsy or migraine disorders. To him, these were not acts of compassion, but obvious reductions of impediment. A scientist with cerebral palsy or a visual stimulus disorder should not be prevented from working on the basis of those issues alone. No, in fact, scientists with poor experiments, great stupidity, or an inability to model result sets appropriately should be excluded from such facilities. Yet labs seemed willing to bypass the former in favor of the latter based on the simple inability to deduce basic truth from basic fact. That remained as follows: a good scientist must be good at _science_ , nothing more.

It reminded him of the time the headmaster of his primary school recommended that Sherlock drop his science class for the quarter under "special circumstances." This was not because of Sherlock's behavior or grade in the class; instead, it was because of bilateral hip fractures that required the use of a wheelchair for several weeks as to prevent additional injury. The science class required lab work in an area inaccessible to such devices; thus, Sherlock would be unable to complete the class. 

It was idiocy at its finest. The actual access limitation to the laboratory was a single stairway consisting of three steps before the lab entrance. Sherlock explained an extraordinarily simple solution: a plank of wood with tailored edges. Throw it over the stairs near the railing, and anyone in a wheelchair could traverse the stairs without issue. This alone compelled the headmaster to allow him a proper education; otherwise, Sherlock's hips would have prevented him from over a month's worth of valuable experimental experience. The headmaster might've been a twit, but the science professor, Dr. Davidson, was far from it.

Thus, Sherlock could accept the idea of exceptions given necessity and ability. But someone attaining leverage because of similar DNA, adoption, or marriage remained absolutely ridiculous in his eyes. It was not a childish feud, but instead a principle, or as close a thing as Sherlock Holmes could ever keep.

That being said, maintaining his legal death was still required to protect the lives of three people, and until Sherlock had complete certainty to the contrary, he had to take precautions. And in this case, that included accepting help from his brother.

Sherlock had retraced Miss Berwyn's steps to a month-long visit to Salcombe, Devon before her brief return to London. It was as good a place as any to start, with the benefit of being outside the city and away from the police staff that knew him on sight. A different coat, facial hair, modified eyebrows, and a buzzed haircut made an incredibly different appearance for him.

He paced the length of his room, agitated and tired of waiting. Mycroft assured him it would only be a day before John arrived, but without his equipment and the evidence he acquired – all of which was being transported with John – it might as well been a week, a month, a year. He had nothing to do but sit and ponder on the files that he'd taken with him, and even that had long grown tedious.

The drive was at least five hours from London and longer by boat, and Mycroft seemed resistant to any form of air travel. Thus Sherlock paced, waiting, silently counting down till John's arrival in three hours thirty-six minutes.

 

Mycroft wasn't there when the car arrived at 221 B Baker Street, but John hardly expected him to show and explain himself. He wondered if the driver was meant to take him by force, given that the man was armed with three guns, possibly more. But the idea of seeing Sherlock again, confirming that he was still alive and well with absolute certainty, was enough for him to take a long ride.

John slept most of the trip, only waking up for the pit stop outside of Bristol.

The driver woke him when they arrived at the lodging, which turned out to be some kind of historic mansion turned into a bread and breakfast.

"Where are we?" John asked.

"The Old Thurman Estate," the driver replied. "You're registered in the Blue Room."

"Right, of course," John replied. 

"Your things up will be brought up, Dr. Watson," the driver said as John went for one of his bags.

"That's not – " John began.

"There're nine boxes marked for your room, sir. I don't recommend you attempt to bring them up in one go."

"Ah, right then," John replied. "But I'll still take my suitcase. One less trip."

"Someone inside will take you to your room."

Sure enough, one of the staff members stopped John just inside the door.

"I'm Susan," she said. 

"John, John Watson."

"Yes, we heard you had a late arrival, welcome to the Old Thurman Estate. You'll be in our Blue Room, isn't that right?" she asked.

"That's what I've been told," John replied.

"Then please follow me. And I'll take that," she offered.

"Oh, no, I couldn't," John said, defending his baggage.

"It'd be my pleasure," she replied.

"Please, show me the way," John said, putting his suitcase to his shoulder.

The walked him up a beautiful stairway to a long hall with several doors on either side. None of the rooms had placards or labels on the door, so John counted off as he passed them. His room was the sixth door on the right, almost at the end of the hall.

"This is the blue room," she said. "It's an adjoining suite to the green room, but the door needs to be unlocked from both sides to work." She handed him a skeleton key.

"Of course it does," John mumbled to himself. "Oh, and the driver said he'd bring up my things. Quite a few boxes."

"Of course."

"Thank you, Susan," John said as he unlocked the door.

"Do you want a tour of your room?" she asked, making to follow him.

"No, no, I'm fine," John replied.

He nearly shut the door in her face to prevent her from stepping inside. He couldn't risk her seeing the individual sitting on the chair across the room. It might be dark, but not that dark.

John flipped on the light to find Sherlock Holmes staring back at him. Beard, short hair, but his eyes were just the same.

"Hello John," Sherlock said.

John silently crossed the room, and then he punched him across the face.


	3. Midnight Tea

Sherlock rubbed at his chin for a minute or so after John knocked him out of his chair.

"Now that's out of the way," Sherlock said mildly, "we need to talk about Indigo Kendall Berwyn."

"You died, and you didn't tell – " John stopped. "Wait, who?"

"Didn't Mycroft mention? The reason we're here is because the woman who cleared my name was kidnapped."

"The woman who cleared your name was Elena Wilhelm-Glass."

"No, I assure you, it's Indigo Kendall Berwyn."

"You remember the PA on the Fulmer murder?" John said. 

"Young woman, brown hair, wore Old Spice Swagger, yes," Sherlock replied dryly.

"We bumped into each other. Me on the way to the Yard, and her leaving it," John said.

"So what?" 

"Well, she gave me her umbrella, and I knew it was her, and by her I mean Elena, because of her deodorant – that one's hard to forget – and because she knew my name."

"So you're saying the kidnapped woman was Elena Wilhelm-Glass?"

"I don't know anything about a kidnapping," John replied. 

"Well Miss Berwyn was the one who was kidnapped," Sherlock said. "Before she was in London, she was here for about a month."

"So Elena and Indigo, they're the same person?"

"Not that I'm aware," Sherlock said. "Oh, I'll be right back."

He slipped back into his room via the suite door. At first, John was confused, but then he heard people at the door.

"Dr. Watson?" Susan asked. "May we come in?"

"Oh, yes, please," John said. 

Susan and the driver both came in. The driver had a small cart with all the boxes and his other bags, and Susan, for some reason, had a rather elaborate tea tray that she put down in on the small table near the chair Sherlock had just been sitting in.

"I didn't order tea," John said.

"Sorry, you didn't? Because your itinerary requested it upon your arrival. Would you like me to clear it out?"

"No, that's okay," John replied. He noticed there were four cups and biscuits, and he wondered if anyone else would be joining them tonight. "Thank you," he added to the driver.

They both left, and John took a moment to examine the room. The building was well kept and old, and it was aptly named. The entire decor was a subtle blue with golden and orange underpinnings. The bed was four-poster, and all the other furniture was antique. It was oddly breathtaking. Although John was also exhausted, so that could be a factor in his impression.

Knock! Knock! Even Sherlock's knocks were impatient.

"They're gone," John said.

Sherlock reentered. "Oh, good, some tea."

"Sherlock, it's past midnight," John said. "We don't need tea."

Sherlock began pouring. "It's chamomile," he said. "Come on, John, we've got a case to discuss."

"So, that's it?" John said, taking the seat opposite Sherlock. "You were dead Sherlock, dead. And you didn't tell me or your brother or anybody. Now we're just going to have midnight tea?"

"What else would you have us do?"

"An explanation. That would be good."

Sherlock sat back in his chair. "I had to fake my death. I couldn't tell Mycroft or you about it. Otherwise I would."

"And why is that?"

"Because Moriarty didn't expect me to just jump," Sherlock replied. "He used a threat, as I knew he would. I needed someone who wasn't on his radar, someone I trusted. The only person who made sense was Molly."

"Threat? What threat? What's worse than jumping? Did he threaten to cut off your hands and feet before throwing you off?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Three assassins. Either I jump, or three people die."

"And you couldn't tell us afterwards?"

"Not till I know that Moriarty's assassins are called off," Sherlock replied. "Until then, Sherlock Holmes remains dead."

John's anger wasn't ebbing, so he switched the topic as best he could. "You know, with that hair and beard, you look ridiculous."

Sherlock ignored him. "Now, to the point: Miss Berwyn, who might possibly be the same person who used the alias Elena Wilhelm-Glass, was kidnapped four days ago under extreme duress."

John's brain was too tired. The day had a kind of mental whiplash, starting with his dull day at the clinic, then the awkward tea with Molly, and now... now he was too tired to push anymore.

"Okay, so why are we here?" John asked.

 

John woke up at a ridiculously early hour, confused and disoriented by sleep deprivation. It took him several minutes to realize there was a knocking at the door.

"What? Who is it?" John said, not moving from his bed.

"Wake up, we have an itinerary!" Sherlock yelled. 

"We?" John asked sitting up. "What do you mean, we?"

"We need to leave in half an hour."

John rolled out of bed. Sherlock Holmes remained demanding even when legally dead, apparently. He cleaned up and dressed as quickly as possible, nearly tripping over the boxes that were now spread throughout the room. Sherlock must've taken two of them into his room, because John only counted seven.

John knocked on the door between their rooms. "Did you sleep last night?" he asked.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied as he opened the door.

"You cannot be serious!" John said.

Sherlock had buzzed his hair, which looked just wrong on him, and changed something about his face. John couldn't put a finger on it. But what really bothered him was the matching fedora and long coat, which were both a deep gray. 

"What? Do I look too much like me?" Sherlock asked. "Ah, just the thing," he added as he put on a pair of large sunglasses.

"Sherlock, you look like Inspector Gadget," John replied.

"Good, then nothing like myself?" Sherlock asked.

"Robo-man who solves crimes," John mumbled. "Pretty close."

"You think I'll be recognized?" 

"Nope," John replied. "So, what do I call you in public?"

"Uhh, how about, Sean?"

"Sean?" John repeated. "Fine, great. Where are we going?"

"The Grant Estate Tour," Sherlock replied. "We're being picked up in... now, actually, let's go."

"What? Why are we – "

But it wasn't any use. Sherlock started out John's door (like people didn't talk about them enough, now they were taking vacations together and sharing adjoining rooms) and down the stairwell. All John could do was follow.

"Good day, Dr. Watson. We'll turn down your room in about an hour," Susan said as he passed.

He stopped to reply. "No, that's fine. Not necessary."

"Very well," Susan said. "I'll make note of it."

Sherlock hadn't stopped, so John rushed after him just as the car pulled up. 

"So, what is the Grant Estate Tour? And why are we going?" John asked after he got in.

"Leafed through the pages last night trying to find out why Miss Berwyn came here," Sherlock said. "She said personal health, but that doesn't seem likely."

"Right, so she came here to visit the Grant Estate?"

"According to her credit card bill – "

"And how did you get that?" John interrupted.

"My brother," Sherlock dismissed. "Anyway, she went on this tour several times."

"And you suspect it means something?"

"Obviously."

 

"Hello everyone!" a young man said as he gathered about a dozen people together on the doorstep of the Grant Estate. "My name is Jensen Morrow, and I'll be your tour guide today."

Sherlock and John joined the group, which was fairly large given that it was a weekday at nine in the morning.

"We'll begin our tour of the grounds with the master garden," Jensen said as he led them away.

They walked around the house, giving it a rather wide berth as they went. Jensen spouted random facts about the Grant Estate. It remained in the hands of the same family for three centuries, being rebuilt in past century after a fire. Though the family name was now Miles, the estate kept the name Grant after the original builders, Emmaline and Henry Grant. 

"We've walked almost a quarter mile," John whispered to Sherlock. "And we're still not at the garden."

"Sorry about the stroll," Jensen said, catching wind of John's comment. "Our tours used to cut through the center of the house, but now that inside is out of bounds for the tours, we have to take a longer way around, I'm afraid."

"Sorry, why is the inside out of bound?" John asked.

"Oh, well, the Miles Family lives inside, so from time to time, the house is rendered off limits. For example, two hundred and twenty-one years ago, when young Timothy Grant had fallen ill with scarlet fever, the house didn't allow entry to tours for three years."

Before anyone could ask any more questions, Jensen waved them into the garden and began to rattle on about the different plants that grew there and who tended them. 

They continued the tour, which led them around a beautiful fountain in the center of an ornate courtyard. John found his mind wandering endlessly, and he turned to look at the grand old house with tall, long windows. They were captivating with their framing and spidering shapes. He caught a glimpse of a beautiful blue-green dress. The windows must provide a view into a sitting room of some kind. 

Jensen guided them to the edge of a river that apparently coiled around the property. Then they walked along some old stone path that was handmade or something. It became difficult to pay attention. The forty-five minute tour felt like all the morning.

"So, breakfast?" Sherlock asked.

"Certainly it's lunch by now," John remarked.


	4. Ravel

"I'm Mickey, by the way," the driver said as he pulled away from the Grant Estate. 

"Sean," Sherlock said shortly. 

"John," John added. 

"That place has been getting quite a few visitors in the past few months," Mickey remarked. "Ever since they stopped doing inside tours."

"Really? Any particular reason?" John asked.

"Thought you folks would be in the know, since you're here on a weekday and all," Mickey replied. 

"Well, curiosity is what it is," John hedged.

"Folks say that the Grant Estate is haunted," Mickey said. "'Course there're plenty of reasons with an old place like that. All the Grants were born in there, you know? And pretty much all of them die there, too. They bring in doctors and equipment and all that these days, but they keep the family tradition of dying in their own beds." 

"I thought you said the past few months," John began. "That's when the surge of visitors started." 

"That's right."

"If people've been dying there for centuries, why did the surge start only a few months ago?"

Mickey smiled widely. "Dunno. But there was an incident with Old Man Grant about three months ago, then they closed the whole of the place off for nearly a week, then they stopped doing tours inside. Folks who've tried said that when they get too near the house, they can feel something there. A presence, you know?"

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock replied.

"Ridiculous things can be true," Mickey said slyly. 

"Any particular place people mentioned this bad feeling?" John asked. 

"I've heard it all over," Mickey said quietly. "People try to get in around dusk, just after the last tour. They'd go around one side or the other trying to get in, but they'd have a bad feeling and shove off. Got nearly a dozen calls for emergency pickup because of it. That never happens, not this far out from the downtown."

"Tell me," Sherlock said, leaning forward. "Was there a woman who called you more than once for an emergency pick up at night? In the last month."

"That's a strange question."

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"She's a cousin," John invented. "She told us about this place, said we should visit. Mentioned a driver but I don't recall his name offhand."

Mickey smiled. "A young woman did have me drive her out here at night, but not with emergency calls," he replied. "Just two times, there and back into town. She _said_ she was gonna tell her family about this place. Look at that."

"Did she tell you why she wanted a ride out here at night?" John asked.

"Bird watching, star gazing, that kind of thing," Mickey replied. "She went on and on about it."

John spotted something along the back wall that separated the driver from the passengers. Sherlock had already noticed it and casually reached out for the sign. It read DO NOT LITTER over an artistic photograph of some kind of owl. The sign had been taped down, so Sherlock reached two fingers behind it and pulled out a small index card, tucking it into a pocket.

"Bird watching?" Sherlock repeated. "Sounds lovely."

 

They arrived back at the Old Thurman Estate and had a proper breakfast. Sherlock was oddly quiet, which was unnerving to John. The lovely morning was ended unceremoniously as Sherlock stood up to go back to his own room.

"I need my violin," Sherlock announced. "And you should get some sleep."

"Why's that?" John asked.

"We're breaking into the Grant Estate tonight, and you need to be rested."

"Sorry, what?"

 

Unfortunately, Sherlock was completely serious about breaking into the Grant Estate. Not only was the interior sealed from tours, but visitors of any kind were completely banned. 

John tried to sleep, and managed an hour or two, but it was fitful sleep, broken by negative thoughts and sunlight.

Later that evening, Sherlock reappeared to have dinner with John in his room.

"We can't break into the Grant Estate," John pleaded. "You? You're dead, and I'm a doctor, not a detective or an investigator."

"Weren't you paying attention during the tour?"

"No, no, I wasn't. But I saw the security signs posted, so unless you have a very elaborate scheme to get past security – "

Sherlock interrupted, "They don't have security."

"What?"

"The front of the house has post for ARD and in the side windows have stickers reading SFH, and the back windows have RTS."

"Meaning they have three security companies," John concluded.

Sherlock replied, "All three of those companies have automatic motion detectors, door alarms, and they wouldn't work with one another."

"So just the one, then."

"Don't be foolish. They don't have any. They just put the signs out to scare people away."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because as I said, all three have door alarms," Sherlock replied, clearly annoyed. "All the outer doors would set off the alarm unless the code is entered within a short window of time, usually about sixty seconds. We walked around the entire house, every single door is either made of glass or has a window, and – "

"There were no code boxes inside," John completed. "That you could see."

"Anyone entering from an outer door would need to get to the box to enter the code quickly. One or two doors not having nearby security boxes? Fine. But all eight of them? In a house that size? No. The only explanation is that they don't have a proper security system in place and use the signs and stickers to keep people away."

"Why would an expensive estate like that not have a security system?" John asked.

"I'm certain they'll have something," Sherlock added mildly. "But we need to get inside."

"Why? What the hell are we even looking for?" John asked. 

"Indigo Kendall Berwyn came here for a month. A month, John. We don't know why, but she went on that tour more than once a week! Clearly whatever she was looking into here was connected to that house. At the time, inside tours had been discontinued for nearly two months."

"Maybe she used cash," John said. "I mean, if I was investigating something, or someone, I wouldn't leave a credit card trail to follow."

"They don't accept cash, only charge and check," Sherlock replied.

"How do you know she wasn't looking into something else with cash and used this as a red herring?" John asked.

"You've been reading detective novels, haven't you?"

"I thought you were dead!"

There was an awkward moment that passed. Telling Sherlock that he missed him was uncomfortable for John, mostly because Sherlock didn't readily understand sentiment, but he couldn't pretend that statement was some kind of non sequitur. And, oddly, Sherlock was connecting the dots.

"What I meant," Sherlock began, circumventing his uncomfortable apology, "is that Miss Berwyn was quite clever, yet she failed to hide her identity or otherwise protect herself."

"Maybe she didn't think it would be dangerous," John said.

"Or maybe she was purposefully leaving a trail," Sherlock replied. "Which is the only logical conclusion for a clever person investigating unknown events away from home. She knew it was dangerous, and if anything were to happen, someone could follow her recent history here."

"Again, you're giving her a lot of credit," John replied.

"I'm observing the facts," Sherlock said. "The Yard is trying to track her activities in London and failing because she used no credit cards. Everything was cash."

"So why would she leave a trail here?"

"For us to follow," Sherlock replied. "Her spending pattern here was similar to her habits in Bristol. Also, there's this."

Sherlock produced the index card he retrieved from the car service. On one side was the skull and crossbones symbol accompanied by a paw print, and the other side had stenciled lettering impressed inside a deep, velvety-blue splotch of ink: ROLLOVER CAFE 7 2 8 PM.

"That's it?" John asked. "It's not like she could've known we'd end up with that car service, let alone in that car."

"Except she put it on her credit card," Sherlock said. "She used her name and paid every other car service in cash, but she paid that one driver with credit. She was leaving a trail, John."

"Do you ever sleep?" John asked. He wasn't sure if he should be surprised or annoyed at Sherlock's precision.

Sherlock passed John a number of short memory sticks. "We'll need these."

"USBs?"

"Actually," Sherlock said. "Two are cameras, two are voice recording devices. Black is camera, blue is recorder."

"Where did you get these?" John asked.

"I've had to improvise to protect my identity," Sherlock replied. "These have helped me obtain data. Small enough to hide and lacking the compromising information usually held on a mobile."

"Fantastic," John said as he pocketed them. "What is it we're looking for?"

"Anything out of place."

"So, you've not idea, do you?"

 

Mickey was more than happy to return them to the Grant Estate at night. Sherlock insisted they walk most of the way, as to avoid detection by headlight. So they found themselves on the opposite side of the river about a mile from the house. 

"Why couldn't we cross the river by car?" John asked.

"A river has current, John. This is a man-made structure with one sole purpose: to keep people out."

"Sorry, are you telling me this is a moat?" John asked. 

"We're near the ocean," Sherlock pointed out. "Why would you add a river or man-made pond when you could go about a mile to the beaches? The river that was here dried up a long time ago."

They crossed the bridge on foot at run, hoping not to attract attention. Sherlock led the way, blundering from the south edge of the property toward the fountain that they saw earlier today.

John realized how profoundly stupid this was, yet here he was, on someone's private property with a dead man, acting like this was a normal Tuesday night.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "We need to run."

"What? Why?"

He had been so enveloped in his thoughts that he wasn't minding their surroundings. Then he heard it. There was a low, whining growl and a snarl. John's heart started to pound hard in his ears. 

"RUN!" Sherlock said as he took off. 

John followed, racing away from the booming barks of what were clearly guard dogs. 

"This is what that damn paw meant!" John yelled to Sherlock. 

"Yes, I know!" he replied, throwing something perpendicular to their path. "Damn! I should've brought more dried meat!"

The two dogs following them veered off to investigate the meat.

"You knew about this?" John said, catching up with Sherlock.

"I had an idea – oh!"

A third dog joined the chase, coming straight at them, forcing them to change direction.

"Sherlock, I'm going to kill you!" John whispered through his bared teeth.

They were near the house now. Before they were coming towards the south entrance, but the change in direction drove them toward the western entrance. John was running out of breath, and Sherlock wasn't doing too well, either.

"IDIOTS!" someone yelled. It was strange, though, like she was yelling at a whisper. "THIS WAY!"

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and guided him towards the woman, who was standing up through the cellar. She tossed a bone, clocking Sherlock and bouncing off him, distracting the third dog.

John shoved Sherlock ahead, and the woman grappled them both into the cellar. She took care in shutting the door slowly as the two men made their way down the stairs. 

"What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing?" she said in an angry whisper.

"Why are we whispering?" John asked.

"That's what people do when they're trespassing, isn't it?" she hissed. "Now who the hell are you?"

"I'm John, this is... Sean. We're..." John had invented a good lie earlier, but the dogs chased it out of him.

"Looking into a kidnapping," Sherlock replied, keeping his voice low. "And we've connected it back here. We needed to look inside the house."

"Kidnapping?" she replied. "Who?"

"We don't have time," Sherlock insisted. "We need to look inside this house. Can you help us do that?"

"Why should I believe you?" she asked.

"Because we're not the first," John panted out, finally catching his breath. "We're not the first to come looking."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied.

Sherlock started in and somehow managed to keep his voice quiet and low. "You don't? How's this. Either you walk around with bones on you, which is unlikely given the state of those guard dogs out there, or you're prepared to smuggle someone or something – or I'm guessing from time to time, both – into this cellar on a fairly regular basis. You didn't allow the dogs to catch us, and you certainly haven't called the police. If you were waiting on someone, you'd still have your ear to the cellar door, but you don't. So it's obvious that no one else is coming. Which means you just saved two strange trespassers and welcomed them into your cellar on purpose. You've at the very least guessed why we are here."

She glared at Sherlock for a long time. "I won't let two strangers get ripped apart by half-starved dogs. But I assure you, it's not for your sake. If those dogs attacked you, they'd be put down. All because some idiots wanted a look-see around the house. Look at me, Sean, and tell me if you thing I'm lying."

The woman made Sherlock shrink back. 

"You are," John whispered. "You're terrified."

She glared at him. "What's it to you?"

"We're trying to help," John whispered. "Just tell us what's going on, we can help you."

"I don't know what's going on," she whispered. Then she stopped and hushed them. 

The distinct sound of someone walking on the floor above them echoed out. She looked even more scared than before.

"This is what's going to happen," she whispered. "I am going to sneak you into the north wing of this house. You will hide. You understand? Hide. I will distract the grounds keeper and the dogs, and when that happens, I will ring the bell on the porch. Then you two will get the hell out of this house. You understand?"

"Who are you?" John asked.

"Alexandra," she replied. "And you bet your asses I will let the dogs maul you if you don't clear off when I give you a go."

"Understood," John replied.

"The grounds keeper, Edward, he's keen and suspicious of me already," she said. "If he catches you with me, you're burglars, you understand?"

She waved them up to the door into the house and stopped them. 

"Wait till I knock three times on the door, then come out. Can you do that?" she hissed. 

Sherlock nodded.

She went out and shut the door behind her. 

Sherlock pushed his ear against the door to listen in. He looked ridiculous, and it was unnecessary. The wall was thin enough.

"Edward?" she said quietly. "Edward, please," she said more loudly.

"Car – Alexandra," a man said. "What're you doing in the cellar?" 

"The dogs were barking something fierce, and he doesn't get any sleep as it is," she said. 

"So you just went out and tried to feed them? You're a foolish woman!"

"You're supposed to keep them quiet like," she replied. "Under control."

"Don't do that," Edward replied. "I'm doing my job. How did you know that there weren't people out there?"

"Because they would be screaming like loons," she replied. "Come on, where's you head?"

"Fine," he growled. "You want them to shut up? You feed them tonight, then."

Edward stomped off in a huff. Not long after, three knocks hit the door, forcing Sherlock to jerk away in surprise. John couldn't help himself from smiling as he opened the door.

"Wipe that smile off your face," she growled. "Follow me, and keep quiet. And when that bell rings, you leave, yeah?"

Both nodded and followed her.


	5. Haunted

Alexandra shooed them towards a central room; it was the main entryway with a long, splendid staircase made of marble. She made them wait, then moved again, as if there were patrols in the house or something.

"Keep heading north," she whispered, pointing down the hall. "That's the north wing, you can hide there till I ring the bell."

Sherlock led the way. They living room and sitting room were to their left, and he ducked his head inside both. John realized he must be taking photographs, but he kept pulling him along. Any place that would let hungry dogs attack people wouldn't be kind to two strange men walking the halls of their home.

They ended up in a long hallway, similar to where they came out from the cellar. There were about six doors total, spaced out evenly, and one large door down at the end. 

"We should take that last room," John suggested. "Hide there."

"We split up," Sherlock replied. "I'll take this side, you take the other."

"We can't be seen."

"We came here to find what's going on," Sherlock said. 

"But this place is creepy," John whispered. 

"That's because it's been closed," Sherlock replied. "Compared to the rest of the house, these seven rooms have been abandoned."

Of course, he was right. There was the air of disuse around the area, and, like a lot of old housing, there was a strange atmosphere to it, like dust and decay somehow seeped into the atoms that made up that part of the world.

Sherlock started on the first left door, quietly opening it and slipping inside. John rolled his eyes, wondering at how he got into this stupid scenario, and took the first right door.

Both rooms were completely swept and empty; footsteps echoed hugely inside. John snapped a few photographs just in case, then returned to the hallway. Onto the next room. John made quick work of his three rooms, and he wasn't sure where Sherlock was, so he hesitated. 

"What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed.

John followed Sherlock into the third room on his side. Unlike the other rooms, it was filled with furniture, but all of it was covered with blankets. Sherlock began snapping pictures. 

"Hurry, John," Sherlock insisted. "Take pictures."

"Of what? This is... daft," he said. "I'm taking photos of a dead house with a dead man." 

"This is the first room I've seen that's still in use," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes at the words 'in use,' since that was clearly a matter of context, but John did as asked. 

Then they heard a bell. 

"We've got to go," John said. "We need to go."

"No, we haven't checked the last room!"

John popped out, cracked the far door, and switched the video on his camera and stuck his hand in. He did a slow sweep of the room, then used the other camera to snap photos from behind the door, successfully preventing Sherlock from entering it.

"Done. Let's go," John said as he pulled his hand out. "Now," he added as he shut the room off.

"Through what door?" Sherlock asked. 

"A window," John said. "The last room I was in, it had a window. We can climb out through there, then we run."

Sherlock nodded, and John led the way out. The window was clearly one of the older stock of the house; it led out to a crevice between the outer walls, like an alley. In the old days it might be where guards were placed, but now it was just an empty space with a bit of cobblestone for effect. 

"We need to get beyond the moat," Sherlock said. "That's the boundary for the dogs, I'm sure of it."

"Question, why didn't you tell me about the dogs?" John asked.

"Can't we talk about that later?" Sherlock said. "After we get to the car?"

"Car? What car?"

"Did you think I'd strand us out here without a ride?" Sherlock asked. 

"Unbelievable."

 

"You know what," John said as he climbed into the car. "Next time there are hungry dogs chasing us, a little bit of warning would be nice."

"You okay?" Mickey the driver asked. 

"Fine, no thanks to this idiot," John replied.

"Any nice owls?" he asked pleasantly. 

"None," Sherlock said shortly. "Please take us back to the Old Thurman Estate."

"What was the point?" John asked.

"Reconnaissance on..." Sherlock hesitated. Mickey could still hear them. "...the owls. We know more about them now."

John rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to have a pretend conversation with Sherlock involving code words, not even on a day when he _wasn't_ chased by dogs. 

"You gents sure you don't want a pint?"

"No, no, no," John said. "No. Thank you, Mickey."

"You found it, didn't you?" Mickey asked.

"Sorry?" John spoke up.

"The ghost, or whatever it was scaring people off, you felt it, right?" Mickey asked.

"No," Sherlock said dryly. "We found angry dogs."

"Nah, I can see it," Mickey said quietly to John. "You've got the creeps all over you. Com'on, you can tell an old horse like me."

"Angry guard dogs are spooky enough," John replied tritely.

 

Sherlock had confiscated the recorders and cameras and set up some kind of digital viewing system.

"Can't you do that in your room?" John harped.

"You're in this room," Sherlock replied. "And you need to see this."

"They're photos of empty rooms, Sherlock, nothing more."

"As always, you see but you do not perceive," Sherlock remarked. "That woman in the cellar, she was scared of something, and it wasn't the dogs."

"She works at a place that lets dogs loose on the grounds instead of using... well, any other system. They're not even trained dogs, by the sound of it, just mean."

"Would you continue to work there?" Sherlock asked.

"If I needed the money," John replied. "Or had nowhere else to go, I suppose."

"Or maybe she's scared of what will happen if she tries to quit," Sherlock said. "We need to identify her."

"Alexandra?" John asked. "Can't we just look her name up? Can't be too many people that work in that house."

"You need to find out her name," Sherlock said, turning the computer around to John. "And don't assume it's Alexandra," he added. 

"Why would she have a false name?"

"Why would she let two strangers into the cellar of the house she works in?" Sherlock countered. "Can't you feel it, John? Something is going on in that house. In the north wing. I love this! Whatever's in that house is what has got Indigo Kendall Berwyn kidnapped, and Alexandra is clearly in the know. She's our next step."

Sherlock dashed off into his own room.

John glared at the photos of Alexandra that Sherlock managed to take. They were all candid shots, and most of them were pretty awful. One was decent enough, though, but John wasn't sure how to find a person from a photograph.

He took his phone out. It was just past midnight, so chances were that Lestrade would be only a little bit pissed off.

"Hello?" Lestrade asked. Okay, he was more than a little pissed off.

"It's John," he replied. "And I need a favor."

"Of course you do."

"It's important. I'm trying to identify a woman, and she might be under duress."

"What does that mean?" Lestrate asked. "Might be?"

"That's why I need to identify her," John said. 

"You're not making any sense. Oh, and in case you forgot, you're not actually a detective."

"Never said I was."

"So what're you on about?" Lestrade asked. "You're looking into something on your own?"

"Actually, it's nothing," John replied. "I'm on... vacation, I guess, and something's odd, and I just wanted to check it out. She's probably just a girl, though, and I'm probably just overreacting... you're right, sorry I called."

"No, wait," Lestrade said, taking the bait. "This girl, do you have a photograph? Or fingerprint? Or what?"

"Photo, actually, I might have a fingerprint..." John flipped through the digital crap Sherlock had put together. "Okay, no, just the photo, and a location."

"Tell you what, e-mail them to me, and I'll look at it tomorrow, see what I can find. No promises, mind you."

"Thanks, Greg. Thank you."

"You doing okay, John?" he asked sincerely. "I know Sherlock's death has been difficult on you and all."

John bit into his lip. "You've no idea," he muttered.

"Still, good to hear you're on vacation, trying to take it easy. Me? I've got more work, and honestly, I'm glad. Keeps me from thinking too hard on it all."

"I know what you mean. Listen, thanks Greg. I've got to go, I'll send these to you, okay?"

 

Sherlock must've actually slept that night because John wasn't awoken by the sound of the violin or by any kind of shock and awe from a deductive realization. It was about nine when he woke up to a knocking at his door.

"Dr. Watson?" Susan asked. "You want your room tidied?"

"No, no," John said. "Quite alright. Thanks."

"Have a nice day," Susan replied.

John rolled out of bed and knocked on the door to Sherlock's room. 

"You awake?" he asked. "Or what?"

The door was opened, so John pushed into the Green Room. It was worse than the living room and kitchen of the flat. Sherlock had spread out microscopes and jars of random things, and he had piles of papers everywhere along with his own computer.

Sherlock himself was pacing the length of the room, muttering. 

"Sherlock?" John inquired. "You okay?"

"We should have looked in that last room," Sherlock said. "Whatever's going on, it's in there. She might even be in there."

"You mean the kidnapped woman?" John asked.

"You're right, it can't be her," Sherlock said. "Whatever it is, it's in there."

"Okay, so one thing you haven't mentioned," John said, wiping the blear out of his eyes. "She comes here, looking into something or other, then heads off to London for about a week and not a peep about it?"

"John, that's genius!" Sherlock yelled. "Have you found out who that woman is yet?"

"Lestrade is looking into it," John replied. "Don't worry, he thinks it's just me moping over you being dead."

"Good," Sherlock dismissed. "We've forgotten the card."

"You mean the one that warned you about the dogs that you didn't bother mentioning to me?" John brought up.

"It also had a place and a time on the back," Sherlock said. "We need to go there tonight, John, and until then, we need to figure out what drew Miss Berwyn here to begin with."

"How do you mean?" John asked. "I thought it was the Grant Estate thing."

"Yes, but you said it, John. In London for a week, without a peep? That's odd, but _only if she found something_. What if she went to London, back to her job, and all she had were hints or suspicions? She needed evidence, and where better to get it than with the resources of Scotland Yard? She didn't make a peep, John, because she couldn't. It would compromise her case, which means she hadn't found the evidence yet, which means that all is a dead end."

"Brilliant," John mumbled. The fact that was true didn't make it easier. 

Sherlock ignored him and continued, "We need to start where she started, back in Bristol, before she came here."

"Hold on, she worked in London," John said. "When was she in Bristol?"

"She worked there for a few years, trying to transfer to London."

"And as soon as she did, she took a month off and came here?" John asked.

"She got the transfer months before, actually," Sherlock said. "But it was delayed twice."

"The second time was personal health, when she came here?" John asked.

"We've said as much."

"Then what was the first time?"

Sherlock considered this before replying, "Notice. She needed to give notice."

"For what?" John asked. "One month for personal health, that could happen, but notice is, what, two weeks? Why would she need notice for longer than that?"

"John, have I said you've got brilliant ideas today? Because you do!" Sherlock went back to his computer and started typing furiously. 

"What's going on?"

"Notice, not for her previous job, but for her rent," Sherlock said. "She had a lease, John. She couldn't leave her lease until it gave out unless she got someone to sublet her flat."

"How is that helpful?" John asked. 

"She's young, working in a field with moderate income potential at best – "

"You're telling me," John muttered.

"And she's been educated. That means she'll have debts. It's possible her parents have money, but I imagine, if that was the case, there would be more indignation around her abduction. So it's likely she's financially independent, and Bristol might be cheaper than London, but she'd likely need support to live in the city, which she did, according to this file, which means – "

"She had a flat mate," John concluded. "Of course she did."

"One flat mate moved out two months prior to her," Sherlock said. "Someone else moved in for two months before Miss Berwyn disappeared."

"She still there?" John asked. 

"Anita Hernandez," Sherlock said. "Yes, and Miss Berwyn's replacement was Jay Turner."

"Who was there before Anita Hernandez?" John asked. 

"Caroline Kingsley," Sherlock said.

"Hang on," John said in almost a whisper. "Caroline. Carole. Something..."

"The grounds keeper," Sherlock cottoned on. "When Alexandra went out to speak to him, he started calling her Carol or something like that."

"That could be anything," John said. "Senility. Confusion. Insult."

"Except the man speaking was younger, and he's well enough to tend to dangerous canines."

"So naturally you're drawing the conclusion that Caroline Kingsley is Alexandra."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, paging through his digital pictures. He then added, "That might explain the living room and sitting room."

"What about them?" John asked.

"Look. No curtains on the windows, not anymore, recently removed," Sherlock began to rattle off. "And both rooms were completely rearranged, also quite recently. They used to have wall-to-wall carpet, now they just have area rugs. And all the furniture points inward, toward the house."

"That's not unusual," John said. "The fireplace – "

"Why would you have big, beautiful windows with a view of the fountain and courtyard and garden and no seats to look out that window, John?"

"Bad interior decorator?" John suggested. "Standing room view?"

"Because the windows aren't for looking out, they're for looking _in_." 

John's head was spinning, and part of him was elated. He missed Sherlock's crazy antics and his reeling off of random deductive fact. But two days ago, he was in London working in a clinic, and now he was racing after kidnapped forensic techs and whatever else was going on here.

"You lost me," John said. "Why would that matter?"

"Because the tours go straight by those windows," Sherlock said. "Those aren't for looking out. They're for looking in. I bet no one even uses those two rooms."

"I saw someone," John said. "During the tour."

"And you didn't mention it? Who was it? How old? Where?"

"Dunno," John said, taken aback by the questions. "It was a woman in a blue-green dress. That's all I could see. Her back was to the fountain."

"Because she was meant to be seen," Sherlock said. "She's part of the tour."

"Obviously," John commented sarcastically. "Why wouldn't she be?"

"But in the tour, we couldn't tell that the entire north wing was empty," Sherlock said. 

"'Course not," John said. "Those rooms all had the curtains drawn."

"She draws attention away from the north wing. A woman in the sitting room, draws the eye away from all the curtains, and... something else."

"Well, I'm going to get breakfast," John said. 

"No time," Sherlock said. "We need to get out to Bristol, speak with Miss Berwyn's flat mate, then back here before seven tonight."

"What?"

"And by we, I mean you, obviously," Sherlock replied. 

"And how am I getting there?" John asked.

"I'm calling for a car now," Sherlock replied. 

"We're not getting paid for this, are we?" John asked.

"No."

"So how are we affording these car services?"

"Don't worry about that," Sherlock said. "This is falling under Mycroft's dominion, so he's dealing with expenses."

"Why aren't you coming with me?" 

"I need to figure out what else Miss Berwyn was doing here. She left samples in her flat, and now I've all my equipment and the photos of the first floor, I might be able to piece things together. But we need to know what Anita Hernandez knows about Miss Berwyn."

"What, isn't everything in the files?" John asked. 

"No, of course not."

John bit his lip. "Fine, but you will call me and keep me updated, you understand?"

"Of course."

"Well you haven't so far," John said warningly. 

Sherlock looked up at him with his glinting blue eyes, sharp and cold. "I've been playing dead. Sometimes I forget."

"Right," John replied. That's the closest Sherlock came to an apology sometimes.


	6. Smokescreen

John arrived at a building on Picton Street in Bristol that once was the home of Indigo Kendall Berwyn, also known as Elena Wilhelm-Glass. Sherlock hadn't considered calling ahead, so John had had a very uncomfortable phone call with one Jay Turner, who took over the rent when Miss Berwyn moved out. But he arranged a meeting with Anita Hernandez all the same.

Floor three, flat twenty-one. John knocked three times.

"Who's that?" a woman asked.

"My name is Doctor John Watson," he replied. "I spoke with Jay earlier on the phone."

"All right, hold on," she said.

Anita opened the door and waved John inside. She was fairly tall, about 1.75 m, and very skinny with a mop of dark, curly hair on her head.

"Hello," John said as he walked into the main room of the flat. 

"I'm Anita," she said. "Jay said you were here about Kendall?" 

"Yes, uh, I don't know if you knew this, but she went missing from her flat in London about a week ago," John said. 

"Please sit," Anita offered. "Because I need to."

John took a dilapidated old armchair, and Anita dropped onto the couch.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I know it's a lot to take in, but the people I'm working with... they're the best. We really want to find, uh, Kendall."

"Right, so, how can I help? What can I do?"

John nodded. "Well, we know that Kendall took a month off to go to Salcombe, but we don't know why."

"She what?" Anita asked.

"She spent a month in Salcombe," John replied. "Didn't you know?"

"She had a bit of a health problem. Something about fluid collecting around her heart, or something, and she had to go to some big hospital to get rid of it."

"Pericardial effusion?" John asked. "Do you know what caused it?"

"She never said," Anita replied. "I assumed when a doctor called about it, it was... about her. Because she couldn't call."

"It's nothing like that," John said. "And I am a medical doctor, so I can assure you there are plenty of nonlethal, highly treatable causes of pericardial effusion. And owing to the amount of activity she had in Salcombe, I think it's safe to assume that she was better."

"That's... great," Anita said. "Except for her being missing now."

"Anything you can tell me about her could help," John said.

"Well, she was good at her job. A bit serious, you know, but she made a good flat mate. Before she left, when Jay took over her room, she packed up the rest of her stuff and stored it in the big cupboard in the kitchen."

"She didn't say anything about Salcombe?" John asked. "Or maybe the Grant Estate?"

"The what?"

"The Grant Estate."

"You sure that you're not here about Caroline?"

"Sorry?"

Anita swallowed hard. "When I moved in, I took over Caroline Kingsley's room. She lived here before me. We only met the one time, but she told me she got a job she couldn't refuse working as a kind of caretaker at the Grant Estate in Devon."

"What else did she tell you?" John asked.

"Nothing, really," Anita said. "But I remember Kendall not being too keen on it. She thought it was dodgy."

"She did?" John asked.

"Yeah, Caroline and Kendall were old school friends," Anita replied. "Trust me, I know. And I only lived with her for a little while."

"So she would look out for Caroline, right?" John asked. "Maybe she kept tabs on her? Touched base with her from time to time?"

"Sure, they talked on the phone," Anita said. 

"You have a number?" John asked. 

"I can get that for you," she replied. "I think that's packed into her extra boxes."

"Is there any chance I could get those from you? Have a look?" John asked.

"I suppose," Anita said. "You know, the police came around a week or so ago, and they haven't been back. Except you. And you don't have a badge, do you? No one else asked about Salcombe or anything at all. So... what's going on?"

"That's the thing, we don't know," John replied. "The police are convinced that her disappearance is linked to her work in London."

"But you're not."

"No, I'm not."

"Listen, Doctor," Anita said. "I didn't know her very well, but she was a good person. She cut me a break when I first moved in here. She didn't have to do that, and it's not like she had money, but she did it anyway. So, do me a favor, whoever you are, and find her." 

"Yeah, sure," John replied. 

Anita walked into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a few old cardboard boxes. They had clearly been used and reused for packing over and over again. Four boxes in total, all of them fairly small.

"This is all she left," Anita said. 

John started opening the boxes, and something else occurred to him. "You know, we could use some photos of her, if you have any."

"What?"

"We have files on her, of course, but she was new at the Yard, so she still had that temp badge with no photo. A good picture could help us canvas for her."

"What about her photo from the Bristol district police station? She had an ID badge with a photo, I remember."

"Uh, that one didn't really look like her, you know?" John invented. "We were wondering if you had any that did."

"Of course," Anita replied. She left the room again.

John shifted through the pile of things Indigo Kendall Berwyn packed before she left Bristol. The first two boxes were filled with books. The third box had what looked to be winter clothing packed away, and the fourth box was filled with spare toiletries and utensils. As far as a trail goes, it didn't point him in any particular direction.

He turned to the boxes of books, all of which were paperback. Most were novels, but a few were nonfiction. All of them had well-worn spines. Clearly she loved these books. Then John saw it: a set of very small books bound together with rubber bands. They were notebooks, diaries. He tucked them into his coat pocket for later. They were on top of a schedule book. 

Anita returned with a photograph of Kendall. "Here you are. This was when I first moved in."

John asked, "The police saw this?" He indicated the schedule.

Anita shrugged. "I dunno."

He opened the scheduler to the calendar pages and took photographs with his phone. He lingered over July of last year, and then he looked at the photo Anita handed him. Indigo Kendall Berywn had fair skin, blue eyes, and a rosy complexion. She looked nothing like Elena. It's possible she was wearing a disguise, but their facial structures were vastly different. Then again, John hadn't properly seen her for months, so maybe he was wrong. 

"Anita, thank you," he said. "Once we know something, I'll give you a call, okay?"

"Thanks, Doctor Watson," she replied.

 

Mycroft wasn't telling him something. He knew it. Obviously, his brother omitted a great many things in their conversations, but this time he had purposely avoided some kind of inconvenient truth. 

His phone rang. "Hello?"

"It's John."

"What did you discover?" Sherlock asked.

"Carolina Kingsley did move to Salcombe, Devon under dodgy circumstances," John replied. "Apparently, Kendall called her twice a week. I rang the number, and it was for the public phone at the Rollover Cafe."

"That's it?" 

"I've got her notebooks," John replied. "But there're four of them and all out of order, I'm looking for them now in the car. I'll call if I find anything. Oh, and one more thing..."

"Yes?"

"Elena Wilhelm-Glass worked in London as PA to Thomas Fulmer, didn't she? But according to her scheduler, Kendall Berwyn was in Bristol working on cases and taking lessons on driving. I already called to check. She didn't miss one."

"So Wilhelm-Glass isn't the same person," Sherlock dismissed.

"But she is," John said. "You don't understand. I spoke with her on the phone."

"You spoke with one woman on the phone, there's no reason to assume – "

"Yes there is, you idiot!" John cut him off. "I'm telling you, she called me and knew all about the Fulmer case."

"Call me back later," Sherlock said. "When you've read the diaries."

Sherlock ran over the evidence again. Whatever happened here started with an incident with Old Man Grant, three months ago. Two months later, Indigo Kendall Berwyn showed up under strange circumstances. A month later, she moved to London, cleared the name of Sherlock Holmes, and was promptly kidnapped. 

No, no, _no_! Sherlock walked that flat. The attack was complex and violent. No one could stage the evidence of an assault like that. But then again, he never met anyone who could thwart a plan of Moriarty from the inside, other than the man himself. She would have to be enormously clever in a way that he'd never known before.

The card she left in the cab... it wasn't handwritten. Anyone looking into Miss Berwyn's appearance wouldn't question such a small thing, of course. But why would someone imprint a stamp when it's so much easier to scribble a note? Certainly a woman who staged an assault that elaborate would be able to mimic another person's handwriting. 

No, there was something else. Maybe the Engineer, or whoever she was, impersonated Indigo Kendall Berwyn for a week or so in London. After all, she was the perfect target: a forensic tech newly transferred to the Yard. She had a background, a history, and therefore had credibility, but no one knew her yet. It made sense that the Engineer would hone in on such a person, but only if she actually planned to clear Sherlock's name. 

Why the hell would she do that? 

No, she didn't stage the abduction. But maybe the kidnapper went in for the Engineer and didn't give a damn about who she was impersonating at the time. Yet a trail led back here, to Salcombe, where Indigo Kendall Berwyn left all sorts of traces. 

It wasn't often Sherlock felt confusion; usually, it only occurred after a blow to the head. He didn't enjoy the experience in either case. The trouble was that he knew too much of the wrong thing. The Engineer versus Indigo Kendall Berwyn... they blended together, blurred the line, and destroyed his baseline. 

Decision: The Engineer was the woman in London. She stole Indigo Kendall Berwyn's identity. 

Decision: Indigo Kendall Berwyn, the real woman, was the individual in Salcombe, Devon. She followed after her flat mate, which made sense. The circumstances were dodgy, as John mentioned, and something went wrong. Maybe Caroline Kingsley didn't phone at the appropriate time, or maybe she sent some kind of distress message. Whatever the reason, the real Miss Berwyn came here.

Whoever the Engineer was, she needed an identity that couldn't be compromised. It would be catastrophic if the real Berwyn showed up at the Yard when the imposer was still on the grounds. So how did she know it was safe to utilize the identity? It made sense, proper sense, to use her name, but for a computer-savvy forensic technician, there were safer options available. 

Sherlock wondered if the real Miss Berwyn ever left this place. He turned to the small bags of forensic evidence he found at the flat in London. Two of them were scraps of clothing with blood on them, one of them B+ and the other O-. It would take time to get appropriate identification back from the lab for DNA. 

Two other bags had samples swabbed from...something. Sherlock analyze them and concluded they were taken from shoes or clothing or something that had been in the area of Northumberland County, given the pollen, deposits, and so on. But neither bag was marked, which made analysis difficult. 

The last two bags were the simplest. One had a vial of chloroform, easily identified from the smell, and the other had an intra-muscular needle prepared for injection. Initially, Sherlock assumed that was a diabetic injection, but that would be highly unremarkable. The needle wasn't used yet, so no DNA could be collected from it, and of course, it wasn't labeled. 

He ran an analysis on it and discovered it was azathioprine, an immunosuppressant. Mickey, the driver, said that the Grants brought doctors in and had treatment done in the house. Someone inside must have a fairly bad autoimmune disorder; normally oral medication was used. 

So, the Miles family had an incident with Old Man Grant. They shut down the inner tours and closed off the northern part of the house. At the same time, they brought a young woman from Bristol, installed a dangerous security system that was clearly more to scare people off then apprehend them, and nobody asked anything about it. And someone in the Miles family had a severe autoimmune disorder.

Sherlock pulled up the family history. Old Man Grant, actually Jonathan Moore Grant, was considered the last true Grant. His children were David John Grant, Evelyn Trinity Grant, and Georgia Anna Grant. David and Evelyn grew up together, but Georgia was much younger and essentially an only child. 

David died in the Gulf War never knowing his youngest sibling and widowing Miranda Tanya Grant. Eighteen years after his passing, Georgia moved away to live with her life partner, Amber Riley, who the family never accepted. 

Thus, Old Man Grant, his daughter Evelyn, and her husband Trevor Adam Miles remained the only members of the Grant family that lived on the estate. They had one son, Edward, who married Alexandra Queen Fanning, who moved into the mansion five years ago.

Edward and Alexandra were now both in their thirties. Edward's activities remained unremarkable, but Alexandra had quit her job about a year ago, despite immense success as an attorney, without giving any reason. Sherlock knew that many people wanted children, so perhaps she left her job for that reason.

"Damn it," he said out loud. He dialed up John.

"Sherlock?"

"When will you be back?"


	7. Rollover Cafe

Traffic held John up in Bristol; he wasn't back in Salcombe until nearly six at night. Sherlock hated waiting, and he spent most of the day doing nothing but. He paced. He phoned the lab and inquired about the samples he sent. Twice. 

So when John got back, Sherlock was positively antsy. 

"We need to get to the Rollover Cafe," Sherlock said by way of greeting. "Before seven."

"The card said seven twenty-eight, didn't it?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "It had three numbers: seven, two, eight. It didn't mean a specific time, it was a window of time."

"Sure it does," John said. "Don't you want to know what I found in the dairies?"

"You found entries starting when Caroline Kingsley first moved to Salcombe. Then one entry marked special, something wrong. Then a series of entries in some kind of code."

"Blimey, yeah," John said. "Did you get a copy or something?"

"No, but it is the only thing that made sense," Sherlock replied. "We know she distrusted the job her flat mate took. As a forensic investigator, Miss Berwyn would be aware of a need for privacy in public, meaning she would utilize code or odd shorthand to prevent others from reading her notes while she took them down. You didn't call to tell me what you found, meaning you don't know what it is, but you did know that it was important. The only logical conclusion is that she took detailed notes that you couldn't read."

"How do you know that she didn't just have bad handwriting?"

"Please," Sherlock dismissed. "Here's the car. Let me see the diaries."

They ducked into the car, which John hated because he just got out of another car, but what could he do? Sherlock riffled through the pages, stopping on one page in particular.

> 2013-10-04 Trans. Conf.   
> 2013-10-05 Q. 615   
> 2013-10-06 Q. 615, 616   
> 2013-10-07 Q. 649, 616, 616.77  
> 2013-10-08 Q. 637.77 / 591 ?  
> 2013-10-09 Q. 649

"This is very simple," Sherlock said. "Deceitfully so, I think." He flipped forward to another page.

> 2013-12-12 !!! Transit  
> 2013-12-13 364.16, 3-6 mo.  
> 2013-12-14 364.16, 363.25 – SWB x2   
> 2013-12-15 364.16, 363.25 – BLD x2  
> 2013-12-16 364.16, 363.25 – ME  
> 2013-12-17 364.16, 363.25 – C.

"Why didn't she label the bags?" Sherlock griped. "She didn't even make note of what they were in here!"

"You can read that gibber?" John asked. "How?"

"John, isn't it – "

"No, it's _not_ obvious," John cut him off. "Don't say that it is."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Fine."

"What does it say, Sher – Sean?"

"It's very clear that Miss Berwyn was tracking questions related to animal and child care as well as disease and medicine over the months her flat mate was working at the Grant Estate. Back in December, a crime happened, which precipitated her arrival here in Salcombe and prompted her to collect samples, which I now have but she didn't bother to label."

"I'm gonna ask," John conceded. "How?"

"Dewey decimal system," he replied. "Not exactly secret, but obscure enough. Six fifteen, pharmacology and therapeutics. Six sixteen, diseases. Six forty-nine. I think that's childcare. Six thirty-seven, agriculture and when paired with five ninety-one, which is animal husbandry, I'll have to assume that's indicative of guard dogs or something similar. Three sixty-four point sixteen is for true crime, and three sixty-three point twenty-five is forensic sciences. There's just this one we'll need to look up... you've a phone?"

John pulled up the internet on his phone.

"Six one six point seven seven," Sherlock read out.

"Diseases of connective tissues," John replied. 

"Anything there treatable with injections of azathioprine?"

"Systemic lupus erythematosus," John said. "But this list isn't comprehensive. Anything involving severe inflammation might be treated with azathioprine... injections, though, I'd assume it was SLE."

"She was very thorough," Sherlock remarked. "Daily entries, each noting subjects but no specifics. No names related to the Grant family or her flat mate."

The car pulled up to a small diner called the Rollover Cafe. "See? Not even sixty thirty yet," John pointed out. "We've plenty of time."

 

People packed the Rollover Cafe. Sherlock and John waited nearly half an hour for a table; although, the primary cause for delay was Sherlock's insistence that they sit at the back table near the kitchen and the loo. 

"You know we could have had a seat at the window," John pointed out. 

"That would've defeated the purpose," Sherlock replied. "This is how they communicated. With that phone."

They had a public phone door the hall right before the toilet. John hadn't noticed it before. 

"When I called, it sounded like the main phone line," John replied. "Not some public phone."

"Maybe someone was waiting for a call," Sherlock said slyly. 

"Oh, don't do that," John said over his chips. 

"Do what?"

"That whole, I'm clever and know what's going on and won't say it because I wanna watch it happen," John said quickly. "That thing. What's going on? I spent all the day in the car for this – "

Sherlock waved his hand, "Look."

A young woman approached the phone and dialed out. She didn't speak into the phone, but John recognized the awkwardly long number sequence. She was paging someone.

She ducked into the loo. 

"I do believe that's Caroline Kingsley," Sherlock commented idly. 

"Excellent, now we're stalking her," John mumbled.

"Don't you see, John? This is how they communicated without detection. Caroline came here at the busiest hour of the day, every day, and phoned her old flat mate."

"Paged is more like it," John replied.

"No, I think that's a rather new development," Sherlock said. "Since Miss Berwyn has gone missing."

The phone rang, and casually as you like, the woman reappeared from the loo and answered it. She spoke too quietly for anyone to hear, but the conversation lasted only about ninety seconds. Then she disappeared back into the toilet. 

"Right, let's go," Sherlock said.

"Go? Go where?"

"Talk to her," Sherlock said as he got up.

John tossed down money for the bill and followed Sherlock. "But, we can't – "

It was too late. Sherlock grabbed for a basic OUT OF ORDER sign, casually slapped it on the women's loo door and pushed inside. John followed, mortified. 

"Oy!" Caroline yelled, backing away from the door. "What're you doing – "

"Are we alone?" John asked. 

The toilet had stalls, but all of them were empty. 

"What – who – this is the women's toilet!" Caroline protested.

"You know who we are," Sherlock dismissed. "Caroline Kingsley, I presume."

"Call me Alexandra, please," she said weakly. "Wait... you're the two who were at the house last night! Are you following me?"

"We're trying to help," John said. "I spoke with Anita Hernandez today about – "

"Stop, stop, stop," Caroline said. "Please, it's not safe."

"Fine, Alexandra," Sherlock said. "Tell us what you know."

"That's just it," she said. "I don't know anything. Otherwise I would've said something."

"Let's start with you. Why are you going by the name Alexandra?"

"Alexandra Queen Miles," she replied. "That's my full name."

"Why?" John repeated. 

"I was hired to help the Miles family," she replied. She continued in a whisper, "Old Man Grant has Alzheimer's disease, and... when Alexandra became ill, he had a hard go of it. So they hired me as a kind of a governess, to mind the baby and Old Man Grant."

"If you're only pretending for him," John began, "why can't we call you Caroline?"

"Because his case, it goes back and forth," she replied. "He's very lucid some days, and gone others, and people visit him. People talk. I'm not allowed to talk with other people outside the house, except a ring home. It's down in my contract."

"And people around here who know her, they just, buy it?" John asked.

"None of them come to this place," she replied. "Younger people, school kids, sure, but not the lawyers or anything. They all head over to the proper diner up the road."

"That's worked?" John asked.

"For the past three months," she replied. "Yeah."

"You said there was a baby," Sherlock pointed out. "What baby?"

"Lucas Edward Miles," Caroline replied. "Alexandra and Edward's son."

"And Alexandra? You said she's been ill," Sherlock pointed out.

"Something to do with her kidneys," Caroline said. "I don't really know, I don't really work with her. She's even got a different doctor than Old Man Grant."

"How old is the baby?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh, three or four months," she replied. 

"Who lives in the north end of the house?" Sherlock asked.

"What? No one," she replied. "That's why when strange men turn up in the basement, I send them there."

"One of those rooms is used regularly," Sherlock replied. "Oh, the furniture is covered up, but there wasn't a spec of dust. Someone uses it during the day. Who?"

"I dunno, I've never been in those rooms," Caroline replied.

"Kendall thought this job was dodgy," John said. "She set up a whole system of communication and logging to make sure you were okay. Why?"

Caroline had kept it together up until this point, but she was shaking with anger or terror or both. "I needed money," she said, keeping her voice as low as possible. "I applied for everything. Every job I could find. When the Grant Estate contacted me, they told me there were special circumstances that would require me to be fitted for a special wardrobe. Not a uniform, a wardrobe. They also said that I'd have to change perfumes and makeup and everything. But the money was really good, and I needed it. Kendall thought it was dodgy before all that, though, because I applied for lots of things, but governess was never one of them. Not that I wouldn't do it, just that I didn't think of it. I don't have any experience with child or medical care at all. I studied English at school. I want to be a writer."

"Can you tell us your duties?" Sherlock asked. 

"I don't have much time."

"Then speak quickly," Sherlock replied dryly. 

"My room is connected to the nursery," she said. "So I usually check on the baby at night. In the morning, I check in on Old Man Grant. Then I have to sit and read in the sitting room for the morning, usually all of it. I serve lunch, have a break, clean a bit. Serve dinner. Then I have my free hour, which is now. After that I go back to watching the baby."

"How much interaction do you have with Old Man Grant?" Sherlock asked.

"Almost none, except when I check on him, and when he walks by when I'm reading." She bit her lip. "I need to go. They let the dogs out after dusk, and if I don't get back at the right time..."

"What was Kendall looking into?" Sherlock asked. "You were her friend, now she's missing. Tell me what she was looking into."

"She didn't tell me," Caroline replied. "If she did, I'd pass it along, okay?"

"You must've heard her say something," Sherlock advanced on her, crowded her. "Anything, even if it didn't seem important."

"I need to go."

"Not until you tell me something worthwhile."

Caroline was panicking now. "I... she said something about... development. Something about the development being wrong. Size being too big. But she didn't elaborate. She thought if I knew I'd be at risk."

Sherlock stood aside and let her leave. 

"Great," John finally said. "Now we're two men in the ladies room."

"Come off it," Sherlock said. "We need to get back to a computer. You might need to call Lestrade again."

"For what?"

"We'll talk about it later. She was clearly upset about something, which means it's possible that someone has been following her."

They ducked out, somehow without attracting attention, and left the restaurant. The car took ten minutes to arrive, but John felt better waiting outside. Something about hiding in a women's toilet just felt wrong.

 

Sherlock refused to speak in the car. When they got back to the Old Thurman Estate, he started running around, collecting things. 

"You said lupus," Sherlock said. 

"Yes I did, but – "

"If someone had lupus, would it affect a pregnancy?"

"Absolutely," John replied. "Case by case, obviously, but it can be fairly dangerous for the baby and the mother – "

"Because the kidneys could shut down?" Sherlock asked.

"Lupus nephritis can worsen or start up during pregnancy, sure," John replied. "But like I said, it's all case by case, Sherlock. Some people don't have an issue at all."

"But that's not what happened," Sherlock said. "Not in the case of Alexandra Miles."

"What?" John asked. "Sherlock, according to Caroline, they have a new baby, so – "

"I should've seen this," Sherlock said. "John, I need you to call Lestrade."

"About what?"

"Missing infants," Sherlock replied. "Any missing infants or suspicious infant mortalities."

"All over Great Britain?" 

"Yes."

"You have a time frame, or just any baby any time?"

"In the last three to six months," Sherlock replied, annoyed and bitter.

"You understand how that conversation will go?" 

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Lestrade thinks I'm on vacation spotting fake cases because I'm mourning you. What do you think he'll believe if I call him about missing babies?"

"The same thing," Sherlock dismissed. "What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that?" John asked. "You serious?"

"John, I am fairly certain that the Grant Estate is currently home to at least one abducted individual, possibly more."

"Okay, and who are these people?"

"An infant, definitely," Sherlock replied. "Possibly Indigo Kendall Berwyn, although I don't think that's as likely."

"So the Grants have locked people up on their estate?" John asked. "And no one has noticed?"

"The Grants closed down an entire section of the house and no one noticed." 

"I still don't understand that," John replied. "I mean, closing of inner tours, fine, totally understandable when you're kidnapping and imprisoning people. But closing down the northern wing?"

"Caroline Kingsley, John. Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock said tritely. "She thinks she's looking after a baby and a sick old man, not aiding and abetting a kidnapping. She's told not to go into the northern rooms, so she doesn't. If she ever does, most of them are actually empty. Curiosity thwarted, conscience reassured, she returns to her real job."

"Which is fooling everyone that she's Alexandra Miles?" John asked. "That's just... I can't believe that's been _working_."

"Alexandra left her job last year," Sherlock replied. "She pulled away from work, social life, everything except her immediate family. It's likely she did it slowly, over time, so no one thinks anything more of it."

"Okay, then," John replied. "I guess I'm calling Lestrade about missing infants. What will you be doing?"

"I'm going to look into other family members, of course," Sherlock replied.


	8. Carousel

Sherlock spoke into his landline, "I'm trying to reach Amber Riley or Georgia Grant."

"You're speaking to Georgia," the woman on the other side replied. "Who's this?"

"Have you or your wife recently given birth?" Sherlock asked.

"First of all," Georgia replied, "she's my partner, not my wife. And second of all, who the hell are you?"

"This is important," Sherlock replied. "I need to know if you or your partner have given birth recently."

"You're calling from Salcombe," Georgia said. "Is this some kind of sick joke? Is that's what's going on now? The Grant family outcasts, still targeted by every lowlife in Salcombe? We moved away to stop this nonsense! And you've gone too far! You understand? Too far!"

She hung up, but it was all the same to Sherlock. She as much as answered his question.

 

"Really, Lestrade, it's not what you think," John said into his phone. "This is a real thing, and I'm really looking into it, and I really need this information."

"John, I still haven't figured out who this woman is yet," Lestrade replied. "Mind, I haven't had a lot of time, but still."

"Never mind her," John said. "Look. I think someone has taken an infant, Greg. A baby. And they're getting away with it. And if they keep getting away with it long enough, no one will catch them."

"So then tell me who," Lestrade said. "Where. When. How."

"I don't know!" John blurted, frustrated. "Sorry, Lestrade. It's just... I know what this sounds like, okay? But I promise you, it's not."

"Right," Lestrade said. "I can look into files, but without a location, it'll take a while. So, no promises, okay?"

"Great, thanks..." John said. His thoughts trailed off as the sound of footsteps caught his attention. Either Sherlock was throwing things around his room, or something very bad was happening in there. "Uh...Greg?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Not to be alarming," John said slowly. "But I think I'm in trouble..."

The door that connected the rooms burst open. 

"Salcombe at the Thurman Estate - " John tried to blurt, but a jolt shattered through him and his body jerked. Whoever came into the room had hit him with a taser.

Blackness enveloped him as Lestrade called to him, "John? You there? What're you doing in Salcombe? John? John!"

 

Sherlock remained alert. His attacker had walloped him across the back of the head, but not hard enough to knock him out. His head hurt, and it became annoyingly difficult to pretend to be unconscious as the assailant inexpertly maneuvered him into some kind of box. Sherlock opened one eye when he heard the man stalk off. He was one of those large dog pens stacked onto a dolly. This man might be strong, but he certainly wasn't clever. 

John was unconscious. He, too, was packed into some kind of dog crate, and the idiot kidnapping them draped the boxes with blankets before heading downstairs. Sherlock could only imagine how ridiculous their kidnapper looked. 

Everything took far too long. Sherlock was bored with playing dead almost immediately, and the card ride proved to be uncomfortable to say the least. But soon enough, they were being unloaded in an empty room. The man took John out first and tied him up. 

When he moved to restrain Sherlock, he made his move. He wasn't a great fighter, but he could grab a weapon from a pitiable criminal like this. The struggle was over in a matter of minutes; Sherlock took a hit from a taser and went down like a lead balloon.

 

John woke up to the sound of a struggle. Sherlock threw a wicked left hook, but the attacker parried and struck back with his elbow before snapping in the damn taser gun. 

John's hands were tied behind his back, but inexpertly. He didn't have time to wriggle free, though, so John had to use his legs. He got his feet under himself and yelled, "Oy!"

The man turned, and John pulled a terrifying shoulder roll and landed on his side just a few inches from the taser-wielding maniac. He thrust a hard sidekick to the man's knee with a sickening _crack, pop_! As the man toppled over, John swept his leg up, hitting him in the chest and knocking the weapon away. 

The wire pulled away from Sherlock, stopping the shock. He gasped for air and pushed himself to a kneeling position, bumbling into a rough one-two punch. The other man dropped a harsh hammer fist when Sherlock put a hand down for support, and he collapsed away from John as his hand snapped away from the floor by default.

John flipped back onto his feet and snapped another kick, this time to the man's chest. He smashed into the floor with a loud thud. 

"Untie me!" John said to Sherlock, turning his hands. 

Sherlock's left hand was still smarting from being smashed, but he did his best to unravel the knot. 

"I think he's out," John said. The man wasn't moving. "Who is he? Where are we?"

"I'm fairly certain this is Edward Miles."

"We're at the Grant Estate?"

"Hopefully," Sherlock said, finally pulling rope free. "Is he unconscious?"

"No, I'm not," Edward spat back up at them. "I don't know who you are, but you're dead. You hear me? DEAD!"

John walked over and punched him across the face.

"He won't be out for long, we need to call the police," John said.

"We can't. Go to the phone, call for a car service. If you see anyone else, John, duck and hide. You could be putting them at risk."

John was surprised at Sherlock's level of discretion. "Wait, what're you gonna do?"

"I'm going to see the other rooms," Sherlock said quickly. "Meet me in the room with the window, okay?"

"What about the dogs?" John asked.

"Take the taser," Sherlock suggested. "Just in case."

Sherlock ran out of the room, and John grabbed the taser and followed. The entire building was silent, and every movement seemed to stir the whole mansion with noise. John crept into the sitting room, which thankfully had a phone, and called for a car. He hung up and nearly dialed for the police. He could, after all, leave the ringer off. That would bring officers right to this house. But how would he explain Sherlock? He was supposed to be a dead in London, not kidnapped in Salcombe.

So John resisted the urge, but he did leave the phone off the hook. Then he went back down the north hall, heading for the room they escaped through last time. The door at the end of the hall attracted his attention. He felt drawn to it. Sherlock was probably already in there, so he ducked in after him. The room was big, like the sitting room, but it didn't have nearly as many windows. 

"Hello?" John whispered. 

His entire body ached, and he didn't fancy the idea of running away from dogs. But if he could help someone, find someone, then he'd feel better, like this mess had actually accomplished something.

"Hello?" another voice said back. "Is someone there?"

"Yes, where are you?" John whispered. "Who are you?"

"I'm here," the voice said again. It was a man's voice. "My name is Doctor Evan Mueller."

John yanked a white sheet off of what amounted to be a large cage with a cot and a dodgy-looking bucket. A woebegone man sat on the bed in his pajamas.

"Come on, then," John said. "Let me get you out of here, huh?" His hands shook as he fumbled with the lock. "Damn it... combo lock..."

"He keeps a toolbox," Mueller said. "Over there, just out of my reach." He pointed to another covered set of boxes. 

John scrambled to it and pulled out wire cutters. They wouldn't go through the lock, but he could cut around it. It would take longer, but he couldn't leave the poor guy here. So he started cutting down the side of the door. He could capitalize off the hinges.

"Is there another?" Mueller asked. 

"Sorry?"

"Another wire cutter," Mueller replied. "I could start on this end."

"Of course, brilliant," John said as he grabbed the other wire cutters. "Look, uh, Evan, after we get out of here, we're gonna have to make a run for it. You think you can do that?"

"No," Mueller replied immediately. "But I'll die trying."

"Let's not let it get that far," John replied.

With two wire cutters, the job went quickly, even though John had to roll back the door manually. Mueller was able to squeeze through.

"Where the hell is Sherlock?" John asked. 

"Who?"

"Uh, never mind," John said. "Follow me. And keep quiet." He led Mueller into the other room. "Sherlock? Where are you?"

"John," Sherlock said. "Where have you been?"

"You said you were getting people from the other rooms!" John replied in a whisper. 

"I was," Sherlock replied. "Who's this?" he asked when seeing Mueller.

"I'm Doctor Evan Mueller. Shouldn't we be leaving?"

"Yes, right, John, carry this," Sherlock said, casually handing off a baby. 

"Right," John replied before he realized what was happening. Then he stopped and asked, "Sherlock, what are you doing with a baby?"

"This child was kidnapped!"

"You can't unkidnap someone by kidnapping them again," John replied. "It doesn't work like that!"

"Do you want to leave the infant here? Hope the idiot who abducted us won't run off with it?"

"Him," John said. "This is a boy."

"Right. Whatever. Let's go," Sherlock tried to hand John the baby again.

"I've got the taser."

"So what?"

"So I think the person with the taser shouldn't be the one with baby. It'll make aiming at the dogs more difficult."

"Dogs?" Mueller asked. "What dogs?"

"Then we'll trade. Give me the taser," Sherlock said.

"I'm a better shot than you," John said. "Your idea to kidnap the baby, you carry him!"

"But – " Sherlock began to protest.

"We don't have time for this!" Mueller interrupted more loudly than he should have. The sound of footsteps jolted all of them.

"Right, Sherlock, let's go. Lead the way."

"You first," Sherlock replied. "You have the taser."

"Fine," John said as he climbed out of the window and dropped to the ground. "Hurry up!"

Mueller came next, then Sherlock and the baby. John kept watch. No sign of the dogs, but someone was definitely moving in the house. 

"Stop!" Edward yelled from another room's window. 

"GO!" Sherlock hissed. 

John ran ahead, wondering vaguely how Sherlock Holmes, of all people, managed to keep a baby completely quiet in the cold night air while running. 

Then he heard it. Barking. Howling. Edward yelled after them. "Stop! Get back! Get back here!" Almost immediately, the baby started crying, echoing hugely into the night. 

Edward's voice changed from harsh and coarse to shrill and frightened. "Blype! Foos! Foos! Foos! Blype! Foos!"

"What the hell is he on about?" John asked as Sherlock caught up with him.

"He's giving the dogs commands," Sherlock shouted, breathless. "German, obviously. Bad German."

"What's he saying?" Mueller asked as he stumbled. 

"Heel. Stay," Sherlock replied. "Come on, we've gotta get past the moat." 

John dropped back and yanked Mueller to his feet. One of the dogs was closing in on them, and despite its angry features, John felt rotten about zapping it with a taser. So John grabbed a stick and tossed it perpendicular to their path, successfully getting the dog to veer off course. 

In the distance, the sounds of screaming hit the air. It was Edward. John booked it.

"Don't make me shoot you!" he warned the dog. "Heel! Heel! Bad dog, no biscuit!" 

"Just shoot it!" Sherlock yelled. 

"Easy for you to say," John replied. He turned, but the dog had dropped off. Either it obeyed its master's commands, or the no biscuit thing really worked. He didn't waste energy in thinking too hard. 

Mueller was barely limping along, a stitch in his side, and Sherlock held a screaming baby. 

"Come on," John said. "Keep going."

"I can't run," Mueller said. "Sorry, I – "

"Okay, just keep it brisk," John said. "How far are we?"

"I can see the moat," Sherlock replied. "After that we just need to find the car."

"Don't suppose you've a mobile?" Mueller asked.

"We were abducted," John replied. "I don't even have proper shoes. Look, I'm in my slippers."

Mueller nearly fell over from laughing. They limped the rest of the way to the moat and crossed it with difficulty.

"We need to get to the police," Mueller said. "Right now."

"No," Sherlock said. "We need someone we can trust. The Grant family has a lot of power and influence."

"Mycroft?" John asked.

"I said trust," Sherlock replied. "Damn it, we need someone like Lestrade."

"You understand what's wrong with that?"

"Yes, I do, John, but – "

"The car," Mueller said. "There's the car."


	9. The Miracle Child

Mueller rambled on, referencing the names of departed Grant family members. John felt stupid, examining a clearly malnourished and dehydrated man in a seedy motel room. The creepy ghost thing just made an awkward situation frustrating and confusing.

"Your pulse is elevated," John said. "You'll need intravenous fluids as soon as possible for dehydration and malnutrition. You've got a bit of a rash, but nothing too serious. I'm more concerned about the long-term ramifications. Lie down for a spell, okay?"

Mueller did as asked, and John turned to the baby.

"Sherlock, you can't leave a baby on the bed," John said. 

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because it's not safe."

"I'm right here, an arm's length away, and can see him," Sherlock pointed out. "And two medical doctors are in the same room. Not sure how much safer it can get."

"Never mind," John said. He started a preliminary exam on the boy. Without better equipment, all John could do was confirm the basics. The child was healthy. Good heart rate, good breath sounds. Skin and eyes clear and healthy. 

"He's fine. Perfectly fine," John said. "I'd say he's about five months old."

"That's right," Mueller said. 

"You need to tell us everything you know," Sherlock said to Mueller. "Everything."

John shook his head. "He needs some rest and water and a hospital."

"We still haven't found Miss Berwyn. Caroline Kingsley may be in danger right now, we don't have time," Sherlock replied.

"Give us a minute," he said to Mueller. "You rest, okay? Drink that water there. And ther're crackers. Doctor's orders."

Mueller nodded weakly and started with the crackers and water.

John pulled Sherlock aside. "He won't be much good to us if he becomes unconscious," John pointed out. "Hydration. Food. At least some rest after running so much. That, at least, before we interrogate him," he whispered. "All right?"

"What are we doing in the meantime?" Sherlock asked.

"You need to get baby supplies. And I'm calling Lestrade for help," John said. "He might know someone he trusts in this area."

"He can't find out, John," Sherlock said. "You understand? He can't. Not yet."

"Leave that to me," John replied. 

"Why do I have to get the baby supplies?" Sherlock asked. 

"Because you're the one that's dead, that's why," John replied. "The living person gets to decide things like that. Besides, you're not the only one who's clever."

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. "What do we need?"

John shrugged, "Check the diaper for a size, get more, and formula. Baby monitor, of course. And... whatever else."

"We need a nanny," Sherlock mumbled. 

"Just, go," John said. "Go."

Sherlock ducked out. 

"Doctor Mueller," John said as he turned. "You need to listen very, very carefully to me. There was no other man."

"What?"

"That man who just left? He doesn't exist. He was never here. Never at the house. You never saw him. I came and got you out, you told me about the baby, and we took him. Do you understand?" John asked.

"Why?"

"That doesn't answer my question," John said. "I saved your life, and now I am asking you to return the favor. Do you understand? There was never any other man. It just me and you."

"Yes, of course," Mueller said. "I can do that. You came and rescued me, and I took the baby with me."

John nodded. "And now you're going to tell me everything, and I do mean everything. Because as you know, other people are at risk right now, like Caroline Kingsley."

 

Before Sherlock returned to the room, John stopped him just outside the door. "Over here," he said, waving him into the opposite room. "Got us another room."

"Why?"

John stepped in without answer. Sherlock followed. 

"Did you get the baby monitor?" John asked. 

Sherlock nodded. John took it and quickly set it up. "Good, I'll be right back. Stay here."

Sherlock was confused by the entire situation. Mostly because the baby was, in fact, in this new room. Why would John put a monitor in the other room? Wasn't the point of the thing to watch a baby remotely?

It took less than a minute for John to return. He switched on the monitor and the sound of Mueller's breathing came across. 

Before Sherlock could speak, John asked, "You have any idea what the hell is going on?"

"Why is the baby in this room?"

"Because I gave Mueller diphenhydramine," John said. "He's in no state to watch a baby."

"What's the monitor for, then?"

"So he doesn't run off," John replied. 

"It's for monitoring babies, John, not grown men."

"And if we had a crib, cradle, or _anything_ we could safely leave an infant in, maybe that would be an option. But we don't. End of discussion."

"If he's asleep, why are we in here? Unconscious people rarely cause trouble."

"Really? Because for a dead man you've caused quit a storm," John said through gritted teeth.

"Not that again."

"Fine. This infant is five months old. According to Mueller, Alexandra had premature labor at six months and gave birth to a stillborn baby girl three months ago. Her kidneys have started to fail."

"Her prognosis?"

"According to Mueller, it's very poor, but I can't be sure without seeing her myself," John replied. "My concern is that this infant is five months old. They're clearly trying to pretend that Alexandra carried her child to term and gave birth three months ago. So, Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

"You've discovered most of it," Sherlock replied. "What else did Mueller say?"

John pulled out one of Sherlock's recorders and hit play. 

_"Listen. I swear. I swear I didn't know. I was asked to lie about a child's age and birth, that's all. I swear. I was told the baby was adopted from an orphanage. It wasn't until that woman came round that I discovered the baby was stolen. That's when I was locked up. Because I was going to report everything," Mueller said._

_"What woman?" John asked._

_"She said her name was Kendall," Mueller replied. "And she told me that she had proof the child was stolen."_

_"When?" John asked. "When did you last see this woman?"_

_"It's hard to know. Without the sun. Hard to mark the days... I wrote prescriptions the day before she came to me. The fifteenth of December. That was before I was imprisoned in that house."_

_"When did that happen?"_

_"Five days after," Mueller replied. "What's the date?"_

_"You've been missing since before Christmas? And no one noticed?"_

_"I have a special practice," Mueller replied. "I only treat Alexandra, sometimes Old Man Grant, have been for two years now. I have a room in the house. As far as anyone knew, I moved in full-time to help Alexandra with her pregnancy."_

_"That was after she lost her baby," John pointed out. "You expect me to believe you thought that this was some kind of legitimate adoption? Why would anyone hide that?"_

_"Because the child has to be a Grant!" Mueller spat. "Old Man Grant had very specific rules for inheritance of the estate. His daughter-in-law, Miranda, has no claim. Her husband left her with his pension, but Old Man Grant cut her out of everything else. He wanted everything for his two daughters."_

_"So Edward convinced you to lie about the adoption so his grandfather wouldn't cut him out of the will?" John asked. "I've been told that Old Man Grant has Alzheimer's Disease. Would he even be able to change his will?"_

_"I'm not a lawyer, but I do know that Old Man Grant has lucid days. Irrefutably."_

_"Doctor Mueller, you need to tell me everything. Everything you know. You understand?"_

_"The timing was perfect," Mueller said. "That's what he told me. Said it was like fate that she should be so close to term so soon after he lost his own son. I told him he was mad. He'd fail a paternity test, obviously, so what was the point? That was when he locked me up."_

_"She was so close to term?" John asked. "Who?"_

Sherlock spoke over the tape. "Georgia Grant, his aunt." 

John paused it. "How did you know that?" 

"Georgia is nearly two decades younger than her siblings," Sherlock added. "She was born only two years before her nephew Edward. The family refused to accept her partner, Amber Riley, so she moved away. Still, any child Georgia gave birth to would remain a direct descendant of Jonathan Grant. His grandchild. And therefore in direct competition with Edward. And he couldn't have that."

John shook his head. "You want to hear the rest?" he asked. 

"There's more?" Sherlock asked. "What are you waiting for?"

_"So, to sum up," John said. "Edward Miles asked you to hide his wife's stillbirth and pretend she was still pregnant so that he could make the world believe that his adopted son was his biological son."_

_"Just his grandfather," Mueller replied. "Just as long as he was alive."_

_"And you believed that?" John asked. "Why?"_

_"Because I know what happened to Miranda. She should have gotten a third of the estate, but she was completely removed from the will after her husband died. Days after the funeral, actually. I know it sounds mad, but Edward came to me, desperate that his child would inherit his family estate, and I helped him. But I swear, swear, I thought it was an adoption. The lie need only survive as long as Old Man Grant."_

The tape ended. 

"That's it?" Sherlock asked. 

"Isn't that enough?"

"No, not at all. We still don't know what happened to Miss Berwyn or how this infant was kidnapped."

Sherlock started to pace, so John sat down and waited. At least he didn't have his damn violin.

"He was wrong," Sherlock began. "Edward said the timing was perfect, but it wasn't. Georgia's child is five months old. That would be like Alexandra giving birth at seven months."

"That happens," John said. "Welcome to the twenty-first century."

"It does happen, but it attracts questions. Medical questions. Intensive care. If the timing was perfect, Georgia would've had baby three months ago, not five."

"Okay, what are you getting at?" John asked. 

Sherlock looked at the baby, curiosity cascading over his face. "And of course there's the simple fact that none of this makes sense. Edward is a direct descendant. Even without a child, he stands to inherit everything."

"I suppose," John said. "But then again, maybe not. You said Georgia left. That's not the same thing as being disowned. I'm guessing her dad still loves her, his youngest daughter. Probably his favorite. There's every chance that she's still in the will. And I'm guessing any grandchild she had would also be favored by the old man with all the money."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Of course. Of course!"

"Of course, _what_?" John asked. 

"Edward knows all about Georgia's life," Sherlock replied. "Because he's had people watching her. He planned all along to prevent her from having direct descendants. She became pregnant around the same time as Alexandra. Maybe all the medical problems at home distracted him, or maybe he wanted to punish his aunt, I don't know. Either way, I'm guessing her pregnancy was tumultuous. By someone else's design."

John felt sick to his stomach, but Sherlock continued. "But Georgia? She kept fighting because she wanted that baby. Imagine what Edward must have thought when he realized the only remaining way to stop his aunt from having a child would be to fake a stillbirth. Right around that time, his wife has an early labor and his child dies. Suddenly, suddenly, his aunt's pregnancy has a new reason to be. _That's_ what he meant about the timing being perfect."

"Sherlock, you're suggesting a conspiracy," John said. "Not just people watching Georgia, but actively trying to induce miscarriage - "

"And premature birth," Sherlock added casually. "And then somehow staging a stillbirth."

"That would take tremendous resources," John replied. "Not to mention it's sick on so many levels."

"But it's entirely possible," Sherlock said. "Did Mueller say anything else?"

"Just that Kendall was the one who figured out the child was stolen," John replied. "Oh, and he insisted that Edward isn't a person anymore. He's a ghost that doesn't know it yet."

"But he hasn't seen Miss Berwyn since he was trapped in the house," Sherlock said. "And that was before she disappeared."

"How did you know about Georgia?" John asked. 

"Among the forensic evidence collected by Miss Berwyn, there were swabs, possibly from clothing or the child's carrier, that traced back to Northumberland County. Georgia and Amber moved away to Blyth. Hardly a difficult step to take," Sherlock replied idly. 

"Look, I've called Lestrade, and he doesn't know anyone out here. But he's coming out. Won't be here for a few more hours. That'll give you time to get out of here. I've already called Mycroft – "

"You what?" Sherlock tried to interrupt, but John continued anyway.

"He's going to take care of our rooms, make sure no one knows you were there. That way, you're still dead. Or whatever. That being said, you need to get out of here."

"I'm not leaving."

"What?"

"I came here to find out what happened to Miss Berwyn," Sherlock replied. "And I'll be staying here until I do."

"We can't wait," John said. "We've basically kidnapped this baby. We need to report things and get police involved. And you being dead means you can't be here."

"Won't you be in trouble?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't worry about that."

"But – "

"The longer I wait, the more difficult it becomes."

"Aren't you waiting for Lestrade?" Sherlock asked. 

"No," John replied. "I'm waiting on you."

"But you can't take the fall – "

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "If you're going to look for Kendall, I can't stop you. But if you need to remain legally dead, get out of here."

Sherlock considered his options. John had already made up his mind. "Why?" Sherlock asked. "You could just as easily leverage Mueller's guilty conscience for confession."

"I won't leave an infant with that man, not after what he's done," John replied. "Besides, if you're right about this whole thing, which you probably are, then that baby is a miracle child. Survived through all that just to come into this world. You can't expect me to walk away."

"You like children," Sherlock stately blandly. 

John rolled his eyes. "Go on, Sherlock. I won't hold it against you. Not as much as being dead, anyway. Oh, and take this," he offered Sherlock the other recorder. "Dunno if this'll help you. When I was examining him, he rambled on. I taped it."

"I was there," Sherlock dismissed. "I remember what he said. Nonsense." 

But he took the recording anyway.


	10. A Ghost Story

_The Grant Estate is full of ghosts. You walk the halls and think, nah, there's no such thing. But... the next instant, your skin pricks, your body tenses. There's that cool, dark sensation that slides past your periphery, and it's like someone's just walked over your grave. You think to yourself, nah, there's no such thing as ghosts, but this time you're not so sure. This time you know you're lying to yourself. And it's only going to get worse. Whenever you're there, it can happen at any time, because like I said, the estate is full of ghosts._

_There are lots of stories, but I was there for weeks. In that little cell. In that room. I was forced to stay in there with no way out, and it drilled down into my bones. You understand? Those stories, they're in my bones, and now they're out in my blood. There's one spirit there, it just sneaks right into your mind, and it sinks its roots into you and drinks up everything you got. That's the one. It sat on my chest at night and squeezed the breath out of me. And when I had nothing left, it reminded me every single second. I could hear whimpering and crying and muffled whispers sometimes. Sometimes, it would whisper to me. Never could hear a proper word, just the sounds, the hushed sounds of consonants begging to be heard._

_If ever I were mad, it was in that cell, in that room, with that whispering gust stealing the breath from my lungs._

_The one that got Edward, though, that one was worse than the thing that had me. Fury frozen and forever aching like tears. It never melts, never burns up, never ends. It's like being stuck in a second of terror for a thousand years. You can't escape it. I couldn't, and Edward couldn't, either. I saw it in him, the specter grinning with his face. Edward's grief opened him up like a festering wound, and that ghost filled him up in all his hollow places. He turned his prize dogs, trained as service animals, into malicious and starving fiends. He told his wife that she killed their child, and that he remade his own son without her. He does nothing without venom and bile to drive him._

_Don't you understand? Edward Miles isn't a man anymore. He's a ghost. He just doesn't know it yet._

 

Sherlock listened to the tape over and over again. It was pretty clear that, even if only for a short time, someone else had been held captive. The whimpering was likely someone else, probably Indigo Kendall Berwyn. If John and Lestrade convinced the police to investigate, maybe they'd find her in that house, still trapped. 

But that would mean that the Engineer knew she was tied up in a room somewhere. That didn't make sense. It just didn't. Why not just free her? Or, how could the Engineer have known no one would find the real Berwyn before her work was complete in London? 

He considered the evidence. The swabs were clear. They helped Berwyn connect the dots. The sample of medication was from Alexandra, pointing out her lupus. Before being imprisoned by Edward Miles, Doctor Mueller would've kept doctor patient confidentiality, so she must've poked around a bit to find out more. All of that made sense to Sherlock. The chloroform was an oddity, since Edward used a taser to abduct them, but that could be an evolution. As he needed to abduct more people, he switched modes. It's strange, but not impossible.

The blood. Two of the bags had blood evidence on them. Sherlock hadn't heard back from the labs before they were abducted, so all he knew were the blood types. They were the true outliers. He found a nearby phone and called his voicemail. He had a new message. 

"Hello? It's Molly Hooper from Saint Bart's. I ran those tests. Full results are posted in your inbox, but I've got a short response. DNA is on file first is from Nelly Madden. She's currently at Yealm Medical Centre in Plymouth. The other blood sample is a match for Indigo Kendall Berwyn." She lowered her voice. "I couldn't find anything about her without attracting attention. Sorry."

Sherlock hung up. There was no need for more information. The message was pretty damn clear.

 

Lestrade made it to Salcombe about eight hours after John's abduction. He managed to convince Tolbert to give him a few days off on short notice under the pretext of "health problems." So he was a little frustrated, albeit relieved, when John called his mobile when he was in transit. He wasn't sure how he'd explain himself properly to Tolbert, but the Chief Inspector already knew Lestrade was away because of Doctor Watson, so he'd have to think of something.

"Yes, hello," Lestrade introduced, "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Detective Inspector Ferrell," the officer replied. "You're here about this Grant mess, aren't you?"

"I'm here about Doctor John Watson," Lestrade said. 

"Then you mean yes," Ferrell said. 

"What do you mean mess?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, your man claims he was abducted from his room," Ferrell said, "and taken to the Grant Estate, where he somehow managed to rescue an imprisoned doctor and a kidnapped infant."

"Sounds like him," Lestrade mumbled. "But I can verify the abduction. I was on the phone with him when it happened."

"Sit down," Ferrell said. "We've got a lot to talk about, it seems."

 

Sherlock traveled to Plymouth as soon as he heard Molly's message. He purchased a new coat and hat and cleaned up before going to the hospital. He needed to take precautions, after all. 

It had been six hours since he left John at the motel. He didn't feel guilty, exactly, but he didn't relish the idea. He found his mind wandering from his task, wondering what was going on with John. But he needed to focus if he wanted to find out what happened to Indigo Kendall Berwyn. 

Sherlock entered Yealm Medical Centre and went to the primary reception desk. 

"I'm here to see Indigo Kendall Berwyn," he said. 

"Uh, hold on," the man behind the desk said. "Sorry, no one here by that name."

"What about Nelly Madden?" Sherlock asked. 

"Uh, right, she's in the coma ward."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied curtly.

It made sense. Stealing a person's identity was difficult if they were properly identified in some hospital. She could have a false name or be a Jane Doe. As he followed the signs to the coma ward, every step he took gave him the certainty that he would find Indigo Kendall Berwyn in one of the beds.

There were a sum total of three people on the ward: Nelly Madden, Joseph Coppers, and Steward van Buren. The blood samples Sherlock had found were of different types, so he could safely assume that Nelly Madden was not lying in for Indigo Kendall Berwyn.

"Did you have any Jane Does?" Sherlock asked a passing nurse. "Or was there anyone else in this ward recently? Say the last two weeks?"

"No and no," the nurse said harshly. "What are you doing here? If you don't know anyone here, then – "

"I'm visiting Nelly Madden," he said shortly. "I just thought there'd be someone else."

"You've got five minutes," the nurse said as he walked off. "Then I'm getting security." 

Sherlock went over to Nelly Madden's bed. Why would someone leave this woman's blood as a hint? Unless there was something _here_. Another breadcrumb for him to follow. What was out of place? What was wrong?

All three patients looked the same. Monitors, tubes, identical beds. Everything. 

The index card. It was behind a posted sign in a cab. Sherlock's eyes looked around for any kind of placard. At the front of the room, there was a sign. "All visitors must either sign the visitor's book or report their presence to the on-staff nurse." Technically, Sherlock had spoken to that one nurse. That counted. He ran his fingers along the edge of the sign, and sure enough, a small card was stuck on the inside. 

The front of the card had the stencil image of a mobile phone, labeled L & F. The back of the card had stenciled text.

> 025 @ PL4 8AL
> 
> \-- ∃

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Precautions were one thing, but this little maze was... 

Oh, who was he kidding? It was thrilling!

 

Plymouth Central Library was only about twenty minutes from the hospital, so Sherlock walked. He wanted to get a new mobile to contact John, but he needed to wait for everything to clear up. No doubt Mycroft would expect a response soon, his fingers in every pot... maybe he would know.

The library was opened, but other than that, the entire building was unenlightening. He checked the card again. The numbers referred to library science in the Dewey Decimal system, or more appropriately library operations, but the library was too big to go sleuthing in for another clue. Sherlock flipped the card over, which was captioned L & F. 

He smiled. Elegant, simple. This one was good.

He walked up to the desk and asked, "I'm looking for a mobile phone," he said. "Do you have a lost and found?"

"Yeah, you want me to get you the box of phones?" the kid behind the desk asked. 

"Yes."

The kid brought out a small box with about half a dozen electronic devices. Three were phones. Sherlock examined them all, and only one was a burner phone. 

"Right, I'm done, this is mine," Sherlock said, waving to the kid and walking off.

As soon as he was outside, he turned the phone on and pulled up the contacts. There was only one, named 'CALL ME.' Clear enough.

"Ah, hello," a woman said on the other end. She picked up after one ring. 

"Am I speaking with Indigo Kendall Berwyn?" Sherlock asked. 

"No," she replied. "But you knew that."

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked. 

"She's dead. Buried somewhere on the grounds of the Grant Estate, I imagine. I couldn't find her body."

"Then how do you know she's dead?" Sherlock asked.

"Because she had a daily appointment she'd never miss so long as she lived. And she missed it."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked. "What do you want?"

"It doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Of course it matters," Sherlock said. "You're a part of Moriarty's web, that makes you a problem."

"Actually, I'm not," she replied. "I just needed to get close to him, that's all."

"Then you pretended to be a dead woman. Why?"

"Indigo Kendall Berwyn deserved to be found, but no one was looking for her. So I changed that."

"You want me to believe you let yourself be attacked?"

"I wasn't attacked," she replied. "But I needed people to think Miss Berwyn was abducted so someone would go looking."

"You couldn't have staged that," Sherlock said. "It was too complex; there were too many variables."

"You mean you couldn't have stage it," she replied. "Too many variables for you."

"Why would you do any of this?" Sherlock asked. "You planted those forensic bags, which means you knew this whole time that she was murdered, and about the kidnapped infant – "

"I needed her identity," she interrupted. "So I delayed reporting a few crimes."

"Why?" Sherlock asked again. "Just to be at Scotland Yard for a week?"

"I thought you were dead, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock swallowed hard, but he didn't reply. 

"You see, I miscalculated when handling Moriarty. I felt guilty over it, so I decided to set what I could right. And then, after all that time and risk to myself, you turn up alive. I figured you were due a little inconvenience in return. That's this little excursion to Devon."

Sherlock ignored her later comments. "What does that mean, you miscalculated?"

"That whole kamikaze thing," she said. "Partially my fault."

"How?"

"Bad timing, mostly."

"So you are one of Moriarty's little bugs," Sherlock said. 

"Just the opposite."

"Did you give me this phone just to be cryptic?" 

"I assumed your brother would told you more," she replied. 

"Why would you bother with Moriarty?" Sherlock asked. 

"I'm looking for someone responsible for a particular crime. He seemed to be a good candidate."

"What crime?"

"All I needed to know was that it wasn't him," she replied. 

"What wasn't him?"

"A very complex crime. A conspiracy, you could even say," she said. "Moriarty was notorious for being a consulting criminal. So I tracked him down to see if he was the one who coordinated it."

"He was _the_ consulting criminal," Sherlock corrected. "He's the only one."

She laughed. "Sorry, but that's just it. He thought so, too."

"You told him otherwise?"

"I screwed up the Fulmer frame job by planting that gun back on the real killer. You think he missed that? He didn't. He confronted me about it, and I told him everything."

"And yet you're alive," Sherlock said. "You should be better at lying by now."

"Not only did I tell Moriarty that there were other consultant criminals out there, I showed him the work of someone who was better at it than he was."

"He was the only one," Sherlock replied. "If there were others, we'd know."

"Would you?" she asked. "Think about what Moriarty did. He transformed himself from a criminal mastermind, a spider in the web, into a helpless actor hired by Sherlock Holmes. After decades making a name for himself, suddenly he throws it all away? Why?"

"He was insane," Sherlock replied.

"That's your answer? Here I thought you were clever."

"He wanted to defeat me," Sherlock said. "To ruin my name."

"He could've done that without ruining his own name, Mr. Holmes," she replied. "You're smarter than this. You must suffer from the delusion of hope."

"I don't."

"Then use your head. There are dozens of other consultant criminals - if that's what you want to call them - out there. Coordinating schemes all over the world. Most of them do it for power and money. They hide their identities. The only reason you knew Moriarty's name was that he _wanted_ a name. That's why he did what he did. He wanted to be remembered as the most dangerous criminal mastermind throughout history."

"What's that to me?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," she replied mildly. "But I gave him definitive proof that he wasn't unique in anything other than desperation. Then he ran off - quite literally he ran away from me - and disappeared for months. He returned and went after you. I maintain that my conclusion was sound."

"He planned for it for a long time, I doubt you did more than speed up the process," Sherlock replied. "And you... you were part of the Fulmer murder, at the very least. So how are you not Moriarty's little ant?"

"Says the brother of Mycroft Holmes," she replied. "You must know how much he knows. He could've gotten rid of Moriarty years ago, but he didn't. He just watched him."

"You'll find me unsympathetic to my brother's choices," Sherlock replied. 

"And you'll find me unsympathetic to your self-righteous attitude," she replied. "I didn't report the murder of Indigo Kendall Berwyn, you're right. But because of me, her body will be found. The only reason Mycroft cares about my existence is that I'm inconvenient."

"Yes you are."

"Inconvenient because I don't just watch. I've packaged up more than one of his pet projects with evidence enough to keep them away forever. He would've kept watching them. Watching them kill. Watching them get away with it."

"I am not my brother," Sherlock pointed out. "Don't be tedious."

"Don't worry, kitten," she said. "I'm not interested in you. I just wanted to clear the air before I popped back to it."

"I'll find you," Sherlock said.

"Only if I want you to."

The line disconnected.

 

John returned to London after two days in Salcombe sorting everything out. He owed Lestrade the freaking moon for pulling him out of the fire. 

"Mrs. Hudson," he said as soon as he entered 221 B Baker Street. 

"Oh, John, good to see you!" she replied. "You have a nice trip?"

"Very," John lied. "How are you?"

"On my way out, actually. Good night, dear."

John walked up the stairs to his flat and was unsurprised to find someone waiting for him.

"Sherlock," he said. 

"How was it?"

"Ridiculously overcomplicated," John replied. "And tiring. Please tell me you don't have another case."

"No," Sherlock replied. "Edward Mills?"

"Arrested along with Mueller. I have to go back for the trial. But the baby is back with his mothers. And they're investigating the staff who performed Georgia Grant's C-section. And then there's Caroline Kingsley's involvement as well as Alexandra Miles. Did I mention ridiculously overcomplicated?"

"What about Indigo Kendall Berwyn?" Sherlock asked.

"They're looking for her, interrogating Mills about it," John said. "Why? Didn't you find her?"

"She's dead," Sherlock replied. "She's been dead for weeks. She never left Salcombe."

"Yet she was here in London for a week," John pointed out. "Clearing the name of Sherlock Holmes. Now that's a ghost story."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. It's identity theft."

"Ghost story is better," John said. "Less of a mess."

"I suppose," Sherlock said.

"What are you doing here?" John asked. "Isn't this risky?"

"I came to warn you," Sherlock replied. "About the Engineer."

"The woman who cleared your name?" John asked. "Why?"

"I found out why she's called the Engineer." Sherlock handed John the card he found at the hospital.

"What's this?"

"A breadcrumb from her. Look at the signature."

"A backwards E?" John asked. "What about it?"

"It's actually the existential quantification symbol," Sherlock said. "But that's not why she chose it."

"All right, then why did she choose it?"

"It's a reversed E," Sherlock said. "Reverse engineering. That's what she does."

"Like with computers?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I walked the crime scene at her flat, John. It was precise. Everything was right."

"So she's good," John dismissed. But he saw how pensive Sherlock looked, how moody.

"This wasn't a minor struggle," Sherlock continued. "It was a vicious attack, blood and fury. And everything was right, John. Nothing was staged."

"So she was attacked."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, she wasn't. Don't you understand? Reverse engineer."

"You're saying she engineered the crime? Made it look like an abduction?"

"No, John. Me. My thinking. She used the Science of Deduction."

"You're saying she reverse engineered you?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "And I don't think she's done yet."

**Author's Note:**

> The Indigo Stain retains elements of the original Sherlock Holmes story entitled _The Adventure of the Copper Beeches_ , particularly in regards to Caroline Kingsley's role as Alexandra Queen Miles.


End file.
